


Vignettes From the Soul

by AbigailPickardWrites



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Death, Depression, Divorce, Emotional, Honest, Metaphors, Other, Poetry, Sad, Self Harm, Short, Short Stories, Suicide, Vignettes, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-10-20 21:21:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 55
Words: 28,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailPickardWrites/pseuds/AbigailPickardWrites
Summary: A collection of vignettes, poems, and short stories from the heart.I was advised that this may help me, so I'm putting myself out there. Please no hate, but constructive criticism is welcome. Thank you for reading, I hope maybe these can express how you feel, too, if you can't put it into words yourself.Not all of these are directly related to my life, though the majority are.Warnings: Rape, death, suicide, depression, self-harm, domestic abuse, child abuse, neglect, some sex, divorce, terminal illness, alcohol (mentioned), dark themes.Readers should use discretion





	1. Black (Vignette)

When you walk into the restaurant, it's the color of your fitted dress. It's the color flashing on the screen when he kisses you in the movie theater. When you walk down the aisle, it's in his tux and the pews. When you make love on your honeymoon, it's the color of the starless night. When he comes home from work, it's the color of his shined shoes as he takes them off so that you can deliver the news. It's the color of the ink on the calendar circling the delivery date. When you wake up, it's the darkness of the night as you rush to the hospital in labor. When you come home, it's your mother's hair and your uncle's beard and your father in law's suitcase. It's the only color you feel when you hear your daughter's diagnosis. It's the endless surgeries, constant worry, and hopeless situation. It's finding her dead in the morning. Then suddenly it's everywhere: the roses, the coffin, the clothes, the dirt six feet down. It's living without her voice, the sound of her feet on hardwood floors, her quiet whisper as she crawls into your bed after a nightmare. Your husband leaves in his car this color, and you find yourself staring into a mirror wondering how you ended up here. It's the barrel of the gun, the last color you ever see, your life, your being, your end.


	2. Passion (Short Story)

The smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke drifted through the dim air that night. Some awkward, twirling girls in their 20s were dancing and swaying in the back, completely offbeat to a song that did not match their stumbling motions. I would know, as I was seated in the corner at an old Yamaha piano with chipped wood. The keys were more gray than white, and the microphone was a bit rusty, yet it had a comforting feel.

The bartender was wiping off some spilled beer from the counter. His eyes were worn and tired, but he smiled a contagious smile when an older gentleman made his way over to speak to him. They chuckled at something amusing the bartender had said before the bartender caught my eye.

"Play us an 80s song, will ya, Marcus? Somethin' lively!" He called to me, a twinkle in his eye.

"It'd be my pleasure!" I yelled back and immediately began to work my magic on the keys. The song was as happy and jubilant as a carnival until I got to the low G, which I knew always stuck. Skipping over that note, I moved on towards the chorus, sliding my hands across the lovely instrument. My left foot had to work the pedals, as I had sprained my right ankle a few months ago. But any flaws in the music were taken in good fun, as always. Yes, Sammy's Piano Bar was certainly my home.

Sammy's Piano Bar never seems to age. The rest of the world grew old and decrepit, but the character laced within these stone walls made the building and all the regulars within it immortal. Not literally, of course. I had been coming here for three years, and my thinning hair was evidencing enough of that. But inside, none of us ever would die.

As the song concluded with one last chord, many people looked up from their drinks, smiled, and said, "Nice one, Marcus,"

"Sounded great, Marcus,"

"Amazin' as always, Marcus,"

I graciously accepted the praise and took a small drink from my beer, content. Margaret Caster, a middle-aged woman came forward with a weary smile. "Would you mind playing something sentimental, Marcus? Sweet, sad, with a lot of soul to it."

"Of course not," I replied, giving a sympathetic look, "How's your son?"

"He's doing well, getting good grades, got good friends, you know." She went silent for a moment. "It's Darcy that I'm worried about. She's been awful closed off since..."

My eyes cast themselves down to my hands but finished the sentence that she could not. "Since your husband passed away. I am still very sorry, Margret. Are you doing alright?"

"Yes, yes, thank you, Marcus."

"Good. Enjoy your evening,"

"You too. You know, I think that what you do is amazing, Marcus."

My brow furrowed at my friend. "What do you mean?"

"I just think that you're the center of this place. The life. The connection. You bring all these people together." She leaned up against the upright piano casually, tracing small circles on the dented wooden top. "You create that community, that family feeling. You and your music connect everyone. We are all friends because we're all your friend. That everybody-knows-everybody kind of feel was created by you, and I really love that kind of bond everyone shares. I'm just appreciative, that's all."

"Well, you're very welcome, Margret. I didn't even know that I did that,"

She laughed, "How? I think everyone knows it but you."

"I don't know. Funny how things like that work out, huh?"

"Yeah. Anyway, I best be getting back, Joe and Dolores are waiting." She said, gesturing to a table on the far right side of the room was located. Joe and Dolores, also regulars (every Wednesday), grinned and waved.

"Alright, Margret. Tell Darcy that my thoughts are with her."

"Will do," She patted my hand in a friendly way and went back to her table. Sad but sweet, that was what she wanted to be played. A tune quickly came to mind that practically seemed to play itself. I caught Margret's eye once and she gave a nod as if to say thank you one more time.

The song concluded and Steven Geo seemed to come up as soon as it ended. He seemed pretty drunk but happy as he slumped down next to me. "Hey, Marcus,"

"Hey, Steve. How's it going?"

"Fine, just fine. Hey, have you got a lighter for my cigarette?"

"No. You should ask Davy, he always has one with him."

Steven clapped me on the back and I couldn't help but laugh as his drunken slurs. "Thanks, Marcus. You're too good for this place, ya know it?"

"Whatever you say, Steve,"

He roared with laughed, nearly toppling off the bench and slapping his knee. "Oh, you're a good man, Marcus, a good, funny man! See ya 'round!" And he stumbled off to Davy, who happily helped him.

A waitress with her hair in a messy bun took orders from the people in the bar, with good-natured humor. She delivered drinks with a lopsided smile and a joke, always good for a laugh. But I could see that behind that mask of happiness, there was sorrow. Some juvenile tried to sneak in, but the bartender ran him off, saying, "You ain't old enough yet, son, not yet! Next year!" with a guffaw and a gentle smack upside the head.

A young couple was casually sipping wine in the back. Some college students were pouring over textbooks about oxidation and stressfully downing their spirits. A table of men in suits was playing some sort of card game, and it was clear that a man in a fedora was winning as the others groaned and complained. A young woman barely of age was drinking incessantly, broken up over something as an old woman advised her in life and love. Some businessmen were calmly debating controversial subjects about society at an uneven, rocking table. A newbie was sitting alone, but smiling at all the people. It was obvious that she could sense the kind of community that we had here, and she was intoxicated more by it than by her drink.

Finally, Mary-Anne came up to the piano with a frown and an apple, of all odd things, in her hand. Mary-Anne was always a kind of unique woman, so much so that she should be trademarked. But that was what made her so interesting to sit down and converse with. She tossed a coin in my tip jar and said, "Marcus, do you know any songs about sassafras trees?"

I squinted at her, startled by the request. "Sorry, what?"

"Sassafras trees," she repeated, "I remember there were loads of 'em in my yard during childhood. Just feelin' a bit nostalgic is all."

"No, Mary-Anne, I don't know any songs about sassafras trees. But I could play something about childhood homes if you want." It took all my resolved not to laugh. Sassafras trees? Sassafras trees, of all things!

Mary-Anne shook her head and waved me off. "I'm kiddin' ya, Marcus. Paul, Stewart, Ralph, Margerie, and Samantha were playin' a game with me. They wanted me to come prank ya', get a good laugh!"

Sure enough, their table shook from laughter and from Paul slapping it as he doubled over. I saw Ralph nearly fall on the floor and Samantha was trying to catch her breath.

"Good heavens, Mary-Anne, I had thought you'd lost it!"

"I did, 20 years ago! See ya tomorrow, Marcus." She swayed back to the table as I rolled my eyes at them. Leave it to those six to prank a pianist. It was all in good fun, though and It was nice to be able to talk to Mary-Anne a bit.

I continued on playing until Sammy's Piano Bar switched their sign from open to close. As the remaining guests stumbled out, the bartender caught my attention.

"Son, why do you do this?"

I looked at him oddly. "What do you mean?"

"Every night you come in here and you play. We don't even hire you, you just come and play, ever since our pianist quit. You have a tip jar that some people drop change in, you make next to nothing, and yet you come back each night. Why?"

I looked over at the piano, at the signs, at the last person filling out the door. My eyes scanned the employees cleaning up, the waitress stacking glasses and wiping her brow. The manager came out to write some things down in a notebook as he sat at the bar, which the bartender was wiping down with a cloth. Once again, I looked at the piano.

"Because this is home. I have friends here. Connections here. I'm comfortable here. I feel safe here. This is where I belong. So yes, I come in here every night. I came last night. I came tonight. I'll come tomorrow. This is heaven, this is life." I said confidently.

The bartender considered me for a moment. "Son, what if I talked to the manager. I've got a few favors he owes me. Maybe he'll hire you. A tip jar is no way to make an honest living."

"Thank you very much, but I have to refuse. That would suck the joy out of it. This works for me. I get by, and I will be okay." I gave her a caring nod and turned to leave. I was halfway out the door when the bartender called after me.

"Son, what is it you do for a living?"

I smiled down at my shoes a bit and looked over my shoulder. "Nothing." And so I turned and walked out the door. "Till tomorrow," I whispered under my breath and walked off through the streets to a bed at the homeless shelter.


	3. Orange (Vignette)

When the chilly air blows and picks up leaves on the sidewalk, it's their color. As you sit on the deck in autumn, it's the smell of pumpkin pie baking in the oven. Sitting on your bed wrapped in fuzzy blankets and sweaters, it's that warm feeling inside. When the sun descends in the sky, dipping over the horizon, it's the saturated sky. It's the color of the fireplace on a cold winter day. Then, as spring returns, it's the butterflies fluttering their wings and the color of the ugly socks grandma gave you for Christmas that you wear when you see her on spring break so you don't hurt her feelings, but deep inside you secretly love how soft they are. Summer dawns and its the color that gets forgotten, that you never seem to see except on the hot streets in the rundown neighborhoods with the old bricks and radios on the window sill. Fall sweeps around again and it's your Starbucks coffee, the jack-o-lantern's glow at night, hayrides, and apple picking when you finally get back inside to warm frozen fingers. It's the color you either love or hate, the one no one can rhyme with and everyone claims they look bad in. It's warmth, it's peace, it's bliss.


	4. Breathe (Poem)

What do you do when your world comes crashing down? What do you say when you look around and suddenly you're watching it be swept away? How do you come when you're alone?

They say you can reach out, that someone will help, but the truth is you're sinking, and no one is going to pull you out.

Do you feel it? Do you feel the water getting colder? Do you feel your lungs filling up with liquid? Do you see the lights above fading?

Don't worry. Eventually, you'll be okay.

Don't worry. You're life's not flooding.

Don't worry. Everyone's in the same sea.

That's what they say. They splash and swim and toss saltwater out of their hair. Somehow, they don't see the anchor lashed to your feet.

You can flail your arms and fight, claw desperately at the water, but you'll never break the surface.

The water's black now. Oxygen is a distant memory. Why don't they care that you're sinking, slipping, dying? Deeper, deeper, deeper...

You're out of air, you inhaled the water. You're choking, coughing, sputtering.

But keep smiling.

Don't let them see you drown.


	5. White (Vignette)

I can't seem to find it. It's always just out of reach, almost brushing my fingertips. So I keep reaching, reaching, trying to grab onto it. Trying to take hold and let it envelop me like it's opposite does. 

Everyone talks about it and how it's a state of peace. I want that peace, but I feel like I'm standing at the edge of the world, looking down into the void. And eventually, my foot is going to slip. And I'm alone. The color is the blankness around me, the absence of anyone trying to pull me back. Sometimes I think about what it would be if I took that fateful step. Would my vision be consumed by light and would I emerge among this color, finally? Would it surround me in clouds and marble and angel wings? 

Or would it change? Would I be forever separated from it, doomed to live among flames? Would I hurt? Would I burn? Would I scream until my vocal cords shred for my mom or my friends or safety? Would it burn bright, my skin searing off and my boiling blood pooling in rivers of red? Would I run on fiery embers to find an escape, to see the color of purity one last time but fall, crashing into a bed of sparks and cry realizing that the light of heaven is gone and all I am left with is the bright hotness of hell? Would I be surrounded by demons, only the cruel face of Lucifer to be seen?

So I haven't done it. I'll delay the inevitable. I'll stand on the edge of the world until I crumble to dust.


	6. Hey, Are You Okay? (Vignette)

"I'm fine."  
I'm falling deeper and deeper into my own problems. 

"I'm just tired."

I'm up at night, crying in the dark, terrified of myself. 

"Oh, you know, I've just had a lot of homework. God, I can't believe how much Ms. Klein assigns!"

Please notice me. Please hear me. Please don't leave me. 

"Ugh, just stressed."  
I feel so alone. 

"I'm good, how are you?"

Help me!

"Yeah, just spacing out. Sorry, what were you saying?"

I feel so unloved.

"Yes. I'm just hungry. Do you know what time lunch is? I'm dying here."

If you knew anything about me you'd hate me.

"Totally. Hey, do you know when our Geography test is?"

Am I annoying you? Am I bothering you? Do you hate me? Do you want me to leave?

"Uh-huh. I'm just so distracted lately."

I'm so sorry.

"I'm fine"

I'm not fine

"I'm fine"  
I'm not fine

"I'm fine"

I'm not fine at all.


	7. Burning (Vignette)

Have you ever slid your hand through a lit candle or pinched a wick to put it out? It doesn't hurt. It feels warm and then it's over. It's satisfying to know that you can do that without hurting yourself, like your one step ahead of the fire. Like you're powerful.

I liked fire. Bonfires, fireplaces, and making smores.

But now I'm on fire, and I don't like it so much.

Everything was normal. Sure, I had felt my hand pass through a flame a couple of times, but I didn't actually know what I was feeling. But suddenly I looked up and there she was. She was beautiful and kind, making my heart burn and cheeks flush red. But it wasn't the heat I was used to, and it startled me. Then it scared me. I hadn't known that I was different in this way. But as my heart kept burning for her I couldn't stop myself anymore, couldn't try to fan the flames, make them smaller. Each time I tried, they just spread.

Then, when I came to the realization, my mind lit on fire too. What would I do? What would they say? Why was this happening? How can this be? No. Yes. No. Yes. Each thought was another log on the fire until suddenly it was too big.

I tried to extinguish it desperately, but I had to tell someone, so I did. I confessed with hot tears running down my cheeks, terrified that my friend would draw back, but she never did. She embraced me and calmed the raging inferno in my mind.

I had a moment to breathe.

But soon it consumed me. The fire scorched my skin and burned its way into my mind, going deeper and deeper and melting my insides.

Then my mom asked and I froze with matches in hand.

It was all the confirmation she needed. I ran, I sprinted, I felt the whole wildfire erupt inside me, every worry, every fear, every anxiety acting as the perfect kindling. I sobbed and sobbed, but it just spread, burning everything in sight. I was reduced to ash, watching desperately as the smoke billowed into the air and flames like devil's tongues lapped up one of the only good things left in my life. Bright, hot hellfire singed it all, sparks flying away like burned up prayers.

My secret, a burned, charred, blackened thing destroyed the love that I thought I had securely tucked away. Now, still carrying the weight of that secret, I look out at the rubble, the ash, the last embers and wish that the fire had killed me, too.


	8. Mute (Vignette)

Sometimes I feel like nobody listens. Like I am speaking, like I'm shouting, like I'm shrieking but they're all deaf. They hear me, but they either don't understand, don't get it, or they don't truly listen. How can they not understand? I've explained it so simply, bore my soul to try to get someone to really get it.

What can I do to make them hear me? Why won't they listen? This is important, I'm in the deep end and I'm screaming but they ignore it.

I, and my words, are just as important as anyone else's. So how come they don't care? I'm so scared, I'm so vulnerable, I'm so at risk but they just don't care. Maybe my words aren't as important as anyone else's. Is that it? Am I just less? Am I not worth as much?

Especially with her. Why won't she listen? I'm terrified of the other, of my situation, of the consequences if she doesn't listen, how much it will cost me. I'll lose everything.

I'm trying to tell her but she cannot understand and she just can't, or won't, listen. But I feel like I'm losing my fight. I can physically feel myself slipping towards it. I feel my self esteem plummeting down further than it has ever gone, my courage to even try to speak vanishing, and my hope fading.

I need someone to listen.

Unfortunately, I'm mute.


	9. Sleepless (Vignette)

Sleep is a tricky thing. Sometimes, he drifts over you calmly, carrying you away in gentle arms. Sometimes he grabs you and yanks your exhausted body under the earth, dragging you deeper than ever. On some occasions, he creeps in over the window and pounces so that you never see it coming. Sleep likes to just come sometimes, just let you shut your eyes and tap out of the world for awhile.

But there are some nights that sleep tries to cross your bedroom to your conscious self, but it is fought off by your pain. Pain is a smiling devil that tends to hide in dark shadows and crevices, then she grabs you by the throat and slides her claws along icy skin. She seizes you, forces you into her hellish tendrils of fear. Her favorite time to do this is when you lay in bed at night, watching the ceiling fan spin around in the darkness.

Darkness is a strange little creature, too. They say that there is no such thing as darkness, it is just the absence of light, but that is not true, for I have seen him. He is much kinder than you would expect, a quiet and reserved fellow that sits alone. No one wants to sit beside Darkness because he is always crying. Always. I have never once seen him smile.

The only smile that seems to linger is that of Pain's, the only companion that sticks around. Or maybe she just tells me that. It is her job to hurt me, after all. I try not to think on it too long. It is always easier to keep one's mind on sunny thoughts when you simply block out Pain, but she seems to murder my greatest relief: Sleep. Sleep tries his best, but Pain fights him off until I lay there, suffering. And so I lay, eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking down my face from my eyes, like the raindrops pounding the roof. 

Yes, Sleep tries his best. But it is so much easier to fall prey to your demonic thoughts inside your mind when night falls over the city.


	10. Lucifer (Short Story)

The ones that left the party early had warned us not to do it. They said that we were playing with fire but we were stupid and we ignored them.

It wasn't my idea. It was Paige's after she watched some old horror film on her parent's Netflix account. According to her, it wouldn't even work.

"It's fine. It's nothing big. It's just summoning Satan, after all. And he's not even real."

And of course me and my pushover self didn't want to argue with anyone and when the rest of the teens at her party thought it was a good idea, I didn't want to be left out.

Now, I'm regretting it. We were just saying dumb Latin words off the internet that we probably weren't even pronouncing right, surrounded by symbols Paige had drawn onto pieces of paper and candles. They weren't even scary candles, and they made the room smell overwhelmingly like Bath and Body Works' attempt at the scent of an 'autumn harvest,' as if that even had a smell.

We held hands, we closed our eyes, and we said performed the ritual. But I didn't say anything, didn't close my eyes. As if I was going to shut my eyes in the dark room, illuminated only by the flickering candlelight.

The chanting ceased. The others kept their eyes closed. For a moment I thought that we were off the hook, that wikihow didn't actually post a real satanic summoning ritual. Then I saw him in the back of the room, hidden mostly in shadow.

And he was beautiful. His face was perfectly smooth, his hair neat, and his wings were a rippling, inky black.

He looked up, making eye contact with me, the only person in the circle with her eyes open.

I sucked in a breath. What had I done?

Suddenly I was alone. The candles and the symbols remained but the other girls just disappeared. He stepped forward and spoke to me, soft and sweet. And as he spoke, I began to trust him. This wasn't the face of evil, this was just Lucifer, the fallen angel.

The media got it wrong. The devil isn't a terrifying, looming monster. That would make it too easy for us. That makes his true nature too obvious. No, he's nice, he acts very kind, he's beautiful, and he still looks like the angel he once was. But it's a lie. That trust that you can't help but start to give him is his biggest trick.

Now I know that the devil doesn't look like a horrible creature of destruction.

He looks just like you and me.


	11. Disgrace (Short Story)

I squinted up into the blinding rays of the sun. It was a hot day. A terrible day. And quite possibly my last day. My parents just didn't understand. In a world of dust, in a city of rubble, in a home of tears, and in a social position that demanded strength, I was going to die. It wasn't my fault I had lost the match. Or, maybe it was. regardless, I was a disgrace to the family and I tarnished the family name, something unforgivable. Now how could my parents walk about aristocratic England? How could they bear the title of "lord" and "lady" after I had brought them injustice?

Or at least, that was their mentality. I, on the other hand, was horrified. I was a dead man. I was going to die, sure. I was going to sit in this prison with a lifelong lock, which wouldn't actually be very long. I just awaited that quick, sharp, shock and the blinding white light of my execution. I didn't feel disgusted or guilty, like the nobility that was my parents. I was just scared.

As I stared out the window of my cell into the sun's light, I reflected on my life. Truly, it hadn't been that grand. I was raised in a manor, sure. I had servants, of course. But no one knew about how hour after hour, day after day, I was forced to train. And train. And train. And train. And now I've failed. Now, I was going to have a secret execution in the dungeon of the manor I was raised in, and my parents would claim that I came down with the plague. It was the perfect cover. It would explain my loss at the match, explain my disappearance, everything. Except for the blood on the guillotine. But no one would ever know my parents killed their own son. Because no one but disgraces to come would ever see my bloody handprint on the wall.


	12. End Up Like You (Short Story)

Warning: Rape

You said I needed to let go of my control from time to time. Now that you're bleeding and looking terrified, I bet you regretted suggesting it. But as you lay there, turning the delicate white tiles of the kitchen floor a deep crimson red, I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips. Of course, I tried to suppress it. It's rude to smile at your husband as he bleeds out, but I couldn't help it. Tossing the phone across the room so you couldn't call 911, I swayed back to the living room to finish my movie.

The cops would be mad, I was sure of it. But could they really blame me? You had hurt me. You had hurt me so many times. You hit me, slapped me, punched me, beat me down to nothing. But I was done. Never again would I put up with your drunken fits of rage, your terrible breath reeking of beer, or your insufferable tendency to blame your mistakes on me. No, I wouldn't have to deal with that anymore.

I still remembered when you said those words.

"Get off me!" I had shrieked as you pinned me down on the master bed we shared. "Get off me, this is rape!"

You had laughed. "It's not rape, darling, we're married..."

"Please! Please let me go, stop, no!" My shrieks echoed through the house. But you didn't care.

You had gripped my wrists tighter and carried on anyway. "Oh come on, let go of control from time to time. Loosen up, baby..."

Now, I was satisfied. No one would ever take advantage of me. Never again. Unless they wanted to end up like you.


	13. An Open Letter to My Ex-Best Friend (Vignette)

You know who you are,

There are points in your life when you blink and realize that you're not happy. And sometimes, you don't fully understand why. I hit one of those points. But for a while, I didn't know why. My grades are looking up, I love my family even though they annoy me sometimes. And I had friends. But then I realized the problem. Yeah, I had friends. But they weren't all good ones.

A real friend doesn't judge you or make you feel like you have to show off or impress them. A real friend can see you fail miserably, or cry, or embarrass yourself and their opinion won't change. Most of my friends weren't as good as that; I'd describe them as so-so. Their presence didn't change much in my life.

But then there's you. You're a bad friend. You don't just silently critique me, you insult me to my face in the name of honesty. You don't just judge me when I screw up, you laugh in my face then say you're sorry and make me feel like I was the bad guy for telling you that you were cruel in the first place. This whole time you've made me believe that you were a victim and I was being the poor friend but it's the other way around.

I have to give you credit, it was smart. It wasn't the classic form of gaslighting and you hid how you manipulated me and turned things back on me so well that I almost didn't realize it. But now I know the real you. You're toxic, and it's time for me to cut the toxic people out of my life. I'm not going to let you infect me, my life, my happiness, and my success. You're not going to kick me to the ground anymore and you're never going to ruin me.

So I'm getting a detox. Goodbye.

Sincerely, 

A girl who won't be broken by you


	14. According to Plan (Vignette)

The world is held together by plans. A plan to grab the attention of the girl you love. A plan to build the life you always wanted. A plan to pass the next test. A plan to move to New York and let the lights burn your past away. A plan for if disaster strikes. When distasted strikes.

I had a plan I thought I understood. I had a plan that I would cling to. If it came down to a choice, him or her, I'd run. I'd want to pick him. But I'd run.

You fall in love with another girl. You alter the course of your life. You get a B on the test. You find country life quiet instead. Disaster strikes in a different way. Plans change.

Suddenly it was a question. The one thing I never planned in this complicated equation. A single variable I never considered and my whole plan collapsed.

Him or her. Him or her. Pick a side. Pick a side.

They said don't. Neutrality is good, neutrality is safe but deep down they didn't mean it. They were children in a classroom screaming to write the alphabet on the chalkboard. Pick me! Pick me!

I didn't know. But I chose her. It was easier to. He drove south and she comforted me when I cried. What did he expect?

But that's not perfect either. Because I didn't belong, despite how much she prayed I did.

Plans changed. I came up with new ones. Take it back, take it back, stop the train from running off the tracks.

But you can't take back everything.

Plans changed.

Pick a side, pick a side. It was there again.

He accepted the truth. Pick a side, pick a side.

He broke her. Pick a side, pick a side.

She broke you. Pick a side, pick a side.

He abandoned you. Pick a side, pick a side.

She wants to chain you where you stand. Pick a side, pick a side.

But then I realized something. It's not just him or her. I didn't pick his side. I didn't pick her side. I chose my own. I packed my bags and jumped into an empty boxcar heading east and didn't get off until I could see the ocean.

Plans changed, but I didn't let it stop me. You don't have to pick him or her. Check the other box. Fill in the blank. Choose you.


	15. Evensong (Short Story)

The girl looked up at the moon through the small window in her basement. The light shone down on her tear stained cheeks, kissing away her pain. Her eyes closed in prayer, hoping that someone would hear. After all, what was left to do? She was crouched in a small basement, eating the last of her food and caring for her dying mother. The Nazis drew closer each day, their evil laughter ringing out across Germany. The girl looked around the basement built on the grave of innocence and constructed from tears.

She slumped down under the window, gazing at the moonbeams shining down onto the tattered teddy bear she used to cling to so dearly. There was no escape from that godforsaken place. The girl used to have a fire inside her. She used to long to sink her fist into Hitler's face, to make him feel the pain that had become her life, but it died when her little brother was dragged to a concentration camp. She slowly realized how hopeless it was. She could do nothing but cry silently and pray no one heard. Her eyes were downcast and burned out by sorrow, no light danced within them.

It was long ago, but she could remember her mother tucking her into bed and kissing her goodnight. No one kissed her goodnight now. There was a vague memory of her father ruffling her hair and calling her his little bluebird, but that was a tattered memory, just as worn out as all the rest.

The girl turned her eyes to the moon again. She prayed again, asking for the angels above to let her sleep. It had been days since she slept. All she wanted was to curl up and find some form of relief from the horrors inside and outside the basement, to shut her eyes and dream of something pleasant.

As she opened her eyes and went to the corner, she leaned against the wall and drew her knees to her, so small in the infinite darkness. What would she be when her life gave way to oblivion? Would anyone remember her? Would anyone recall her name? Would they even care? Was she going to sleep six feet under a pile of dirt, indistinguishable from the one next to her?

The girl sighed weakly, tears beginning to leak down her face. She cried and cried, which grew into sobs. Shouts from outside, in the lawn where she once played. The basement door breaking down. Footsteps on the creaky wooden stairs that her height was marked on.

More shouting.

A crack.

Her mother gone. She was alone.

The barrel of a gun. The little girl, staring it down, all by herself.

Another crack.

Silence, silence, oblivion.


	16. To A Wild Rose (Short Story)

The young woman gazed out across the moor. Its expanses stretched into the horizon as if it were endlessly running along the earth. This time of the morning, mist hung in the air and her breath was barely showing in the early cool. Rain from the storm last night dripped off the leaves of the trees on either side like teardrops. The morning sun was barely shining through the mist, giving the area a magical feeling about it as it shone off of the water. There was grass, thick grass as far as the eye could see, dotted with crimson roses. Their fine thorns caught hold of the hem of her dress, pulling at her, asking her to stay. She kept walking through the dewy grass, water dampening her boots. No water seeped through to her feet, but she could sense the cool of it on the outsides of the shoes. Her skin rose in goosebumps, so she clutched her shawl closer. Distantly, a bird could be heard singing some kind of bittersweet tune.

The young woman stopped. A slim brook wound its way before her. Gingerly, she stepped onto a rock and hopped across. A frog hopped into the water, splashing tiny droplets of water on her skirts. Peace seemed to rise from the hills behind her and kiss her good morning as she continued through the moor.

Sunlight glinted far before her in the west, reflecting off a pond and shining gold. To her, this, nature's gold, was more valuable than any number of fine things made of the metallic kind. In truth, the entire moor was more valuable than gold. The way the trees swayed, how the roses graced the land with their perfect scent, the beauty of the view. It almost seemed unreal. Sometimes she'd doubt that it was there. When she woke up in the creaky wooden bed in the attic. When she couldn't pay for the things she needed. When she was shunned by the world, hated and laughed at. When everything was wrong, she didn't believe that she could get back to this picture-perfect paradise. But it didn't matter how broken she felt. If she went down the street, turned at the baker's shop, entered the woods, continued past the willow tree, and climbed over the hills, she'd find it nestled in the valley like a secret well kept. That view was the best part. When she was on the crest of the hill and could see all the roses at once... That was special.

She liked to think that she was the only one that came there, that this place was hers. This seemed unlikely when she was back in her life, amongst reason and reality. But once she entered this surreal place, it became possible. Never had she seen another person there or traces of another person's presence. So maybe, just maybe, the moor was hers.

She lifted her eyes to the sky. The sun had risen a bit more. When had that happened? She had never even noticed. Alone with her thoughts, she had no sense of time. There weren't deadlines or demands or expectations she knew she'd never meet. No one judged her or decided her value based on what little they knew or excluded her. No, here in the moor she was okay, for just a little while.

Every time she arrived there, it was harder to force herself to go home. Ideas and plans would surface, whether she permitted them to or not. She could ignore everyone and never leave, just live here where the world could never find her. She could gaze at the stars and smell the wild roses for forever. After all, people didn't care about her. Nature did, and this was where she belonged. That she knew, as deep and sure as anything she'd ever known before.

Head or heart? Every time before, she'd chosen head. But now? No, she had to go back. But in the darker part of her consciousness, the part that she had trouble exploring, she knew she'd be back. One day, she'd give in. Until then, though, there wasn't much else to do than go home. So she breathed deeply, letting one last full rush of roses and refuge enter her lungs before she turned around and made her way back towards the hills, heading for her house at the end of Silver Lane but walking slowly to savor the last few seconds.

Soon, though, she'd return home.


	17. for Her (Poem)

You, with your sandy hair and your warm touch

You, with your eyes like green sea glass and your voice like the roar of the waves

You, with your smile like a thousand sunsets and your soul as deep as the sea

You, with your seashell necklace and your gulf t-shirt and your beachy flip-flops in summer

You are as beautiful as the sea and my love for you is as infinite as it too

You have all the intensity of a typhoon, you rush to my defense like a tsunami, you cradle me safely as I gasp and cry in your arms

Your fingers don't leave my skin as I finally breathe in the eye of the hurricane

Your heart pours out in the rain, "Because I didn't want to hurt you"

And every night as I lie in bed and close my eyes, you're standing there, your wrist in my hand and I imagine what it would be like if I just yanked you forward... if I just kissed you right then and there

When waves crash I just think of you and everything else washes away

What would it be like if I told you and let you pull me under the surface, sink deeper and deeper into you? Please. It's all I think about. Because every night the words echo in my mind in sync with my heartbeat

I want to drown in you


	18. Shades of Her (Poem)

Red

Passion, your lips, my desire, a need to kiss you, just kiss you

I want you to dip me on the dance floor and bring me roses and leave marks on my neck

Pull me into you, lead me into uncharted territory and ravish me

Breath and fingernail polish

Orange

Splattered paint at girl scout meetings, freshly baked goods, cantaloupe in a fruit salad

Ginger spice lattes at a table for two and making you laugh

I want to spend the season with you and never let you go

Your hair tie and peanut butter cups

Yellow

The sun on your hair and t-shirt as you race me down the hill

The refrigerator light at 2 am for our late-night snack binge

Spending summers on our bikes and outdoors until dusk

Climbing trees and hanging upside down until our heads hurt

Your lunchbox and cream of chicken

Green

Grass stains on knees while we're filming

Your breathtaking eyes behind lashes painted with cheap mascara

Walks in the woods and building forts of leafy branches

Texts sent to an android phone

Your old backpack and bottles of sparkling grape juice

Blue

The earrings you used to wear

The jacket that you wore to the library during our study dates

A song that always reminds me of you

The shirt you forgot at my house and I wear when I miss you

Screens and old pictures

Purple

The deep sound of you humming to yourself

A costume and performing on the same stage

Sunsets from my roof and heart to hearts as we curl up under a blanket, pressed close for warmth

A promise to share everything with each other

Glitter glue hardened onto craft tables and barbie doll dresses

Brown

Muddy ground after it rained

Rocks in our feet after going barefoot

The bricks of the half-built house we explored together

Eye shadow poorly applied and the walls of our town

My deck and the spiders lurking in the toy box

White

Linoleum floors between the aisles as we grab overpriced candy

The label on the sandwich you bought me when I forgot money for dinner, "No need to repay me"

Lacey fabric by your sewing machine

A note, an apology, a promise, a song

The salty tears you cry in the bathroom as I hug you

Crumpled bed sheets and novels

Black

The sky when we would sneak out at night for secret meetings in the library parking lot

Your dress. You look beautiful.

Calling you when I should be asleep because I can't go without you

Chromebook keys typing messages on google chats

Your cat I took care of over the weekend

X-box controllers clicking as we build our own kingdom where we're the queens

Colors pull out memories and suddenly I'm drenched in shades of her


	19. What Can You Do? (Poem)

She kisses his lips in hopes that it'll save her

He can help her

She tucks her son into bed and smiles because she knows that her lover can provide for them

Life is good for the first year

Then they fight. She yells. He Yells. The fights keep happening until they reach a climax and suddenly she's on the ground

The next morning she puts concealer on and wears a long-sleeved shirt in June

It continues and soon she's covering what she has done to herself as well

But he never touches her son, he'd never do that

That's what she tells herself until it's not true anymore

Death threats and soon she realizes that she and her son are trapped

Broken glass

Alcohol spilled on the counter, dripping to the floor

Cigarette butts and ash

There's no escape and she lets herself be ruined

She has a special kind of strength her neighbors think is a weakness, but they don't know the whole story

She tells herself she's happy, tries to force herself to be

After all, she's stuck

And she almost makes herself believe it, too

But as she lies awake in Bluebeard's castle and listens to his snores she is reminded that's not true

But what can you do?


	20. The Wrong Route (Poem)

Dice rolled, for money tolled

It took him guts and a new level of bold

It paid off when he struck gold

But the cracks in his skin still let in the cold

She danced like a snake

Her swaying hips knocked him awake

She gave herself to him for finance's sake

He never saw her love was fake

With time lust always wanes

He found himself with new kinds of pains

He started swerving between lanes

She washed the sheets and pretended she never saw the stains

A death filled home

Under the starry dome

Everyone knew he was drug prone

How could she do this on her own?

Money for crime

To keep her life prime

Murder at the drop of a dime

A change in pace

Her broken face

Blood and lace

The way out

A victim's shout

Have no doubt

This was the wrong route


	21. Go (Poem)

Go.

Leave.

Be happy like you always wanted to be

You don't need me or her or him

We're nothing

So go

Build yourself a shiny new family

With a wife that will love you

A dog that will greet you when you come home from work

And a little girl that isn't in therapy weekly and

Stuffed full of drugs to make her "happy"

I'm broken

I'm damaged goods

I'm defective

So take her instead.

Rachel won't cry in the dark

Rachel won't slice herself to pieces

Rachel won't clutch herself and scream when the voices telling her to end it get too loud

No

Rachel is pretty

Rachel is friendly

Rachel smiles when she sees you

I'm sorry I'm not good enough

I tried

But not even that hard because

I can barely get out of bed in the morning let alone

Heal

Go. Replace me as you did before.

Build yourself a shiny new family

That isn't ashes


	22. i Was Scared From the Start (Poem)

I was scared from the start

I knew it'd go wrong

But I was brave like she wanted me to be.

Trapped when plans changed and

Cornered with no way out

"You tell him or I will"

I thought I could trust you.

Green chairs

People walking below

And me hiding in the window sill

Like a child.

You said it'd be fine

But I wouldn't call this fine

I feel worse than I did before.

I said too much

Confessed dark truths

I needed to take it back but it was too late.

Much Too Late.

I didn't want to

Why did you make me?

I was scared from the start.


	23. Gravity (Poem)

You pull me in without even trying

I have swept away without getting a choice

Suddenly I'm yours

You have me wrapped around your finger

My heart, my eyes, my mind revolve around you

I spin out of control, orbiting you

Because you are perfect

In an imperfect way

Your eyes are stars

Your voice holds thousands of galaxies

Your hair is a comet's trail

And your personality is the universe

You do as you please

Without fear

You're celestial to me

And you connect the constellations

Andromeda

Cassiopeia

Corona Borealis

Ursa Major

Pisces

Expressing how I feel for you is like

Trying to count each light in the night sky- impossible

It doesn't matter how many poems I write

You're too cosmic

I love you so much that I will implode

Like a supernova

You are the sun

And I am the earth

Captured in your gravity


	24. What I've Been Told (Poem)

The weak have to go for the sake of the show

The ones that are cut aren't worth your butt

The leads are the best, better than all the rest

The "okay" are just a delay

And you have to be perfect or you are not worth it


	25. Us to Ash (Poem)

Candlelight flickering in the dark bedroom

Hypnotizing flames and heat

She lights me and suddenly I am alive, too

We kiss

We breathe

We gasp

We move like the dance of fire

Her fingers burn my skin and her lips singe my neck

When dawn comes I know it will steal her away and extinguish our flames

I'll wake up to faded embers barely glowing from the night we shared

But for now, I'll beg for her to incinerate me


	26. Long Nights (Poem)

Long nights and street lights

Constellations dripping stars

Washcloth stains in lines

They can't see the signs

But I don't know if I want them to

Cool air outside

Wide, blue-eyed

Blankets around my shoulders as I look up

Shine of pavement

My enslavement

I said I wouldn't do it again but I 

Lied

These bloody habits of mine 

And dreams of the bus line

In case it's too hard

A packed bag

Under my flag

I'm ready

But not tonight

No, not quite

I'll do what I always do

Behind closed doors

The teary stargazer

Will find comfort in her pain and her razor


	27. Caged (Poem)

Exposed  
Vulnerable   
Unable to run

They beat on the bars and jeer  
Loud voices and loneliness  
Steel and Concrete

Where are you?  
Why did they take me from you?  
I miss you

I can't please them  
No matter what I do  
It's not right

Whips  
Chains   
Shouting

Stop  
Please  
Not again

I'm sorry  
I'm sorry  
I'm sorry


	28. Troy (Poem)

I try to ignore it

I focus on what made him mine

When his eyes flickered to meet my own

When his skin seemed to glow in the firelight

When his fingers traced my arm

I think of his beautiful voice

I think of him strumming the lyre or

Telling me a story

I think of his kindness

His trusting heart and his loving nature

But it haunts me still

Because I also remember him coming back to the tent

Soaked in blood

But not his

When he looks over at me and smiles in reassurance in the middle of a pile of bodies

Or when I see his spear blade easily cut through men's throats

Who have families that will mourn

How many people grieve because of him?

How many people has he killed?

He was born to be a warrior

But he was so sweet to me

I feel like crying when I see him begin to harden

They're sharpening him into a weapon

But he's not a ruthless killer

He cradles my face when I cry

He saves the women they drag back from the villages at my request

He kisses me softly and I know he loves me

I was with him when we ran in the woods as children

Or swam in the creeks

Or sat under trees dreaming of a happier future

I was with him when we heard stories from our elders

And hungrily ate like wolves, forgetting our manners

I remember how horrified he was when he first saw death

How he grieved

They weren't there

They don't know

I sometimes feel like he is slipping through my fingers

Like sand in an hourglass

Like he'll become something else

I hide it from him

My grief

It would only bring him pain to know how sorrowful I am about him

And his victims

And he's so famous

He'll go down in history, possibly me, too

For being beside him

They will say I was his friend

Because we can only touch in the secrecy of his tent

We will be erased by time

It's all so hopeless

I'm so scared

Stranded outside the city of Troy

Listening to swords clash and the screams

He's running out of minutes

Will tonight be the last time he presses his lips to mine?

I try to ignore it

The death he causes

The tool that they are making him into

The fate our love has

The prophecy

His inevitable

Untimely

Unfair

Death

I hear him whisper my name in the dark

Patroclus

And tears slip from my eyes

Because I can't save him

I can't do a single thing to save my Achilles


	29. The Sea and I (Poem)

From the balcony above the sea looks calm

Its waves appear to peacefully lap at the shore like kisses

The sky so gray and serene

The water such a dark blue

When I walk along the shoreline in the dead of night

And sit down close to the water

I realize that this is not true

At all

The waves are tall and dangerous

The crash of the sea is loud and defiant

The water is so dark that it almost appears black

And the stars are bleeding

I realize that it is not happy

No

That's a facade

The water is angry

It is scared

It is sad

And I feel it too

The anger

The sorrow

The fear

We are not so different, the sea and I

Not when you look closer

The view from the balcony paints an image of a warm, inviting sea

But it's truly a turbulent ocean


	30. I Don't Need Them (Poem)

Growing up to be a grown-up, what could be better?

Have freedom, live my life, maybe become a mother

Step into the world, find a place

Run in life's great race

I dream of a day to bid mom and dad farewell

To move away, find a place to call my own, and rebel

I want to age and be a great success

To one day have to select a wedding dress

I want to have a child one day

Have a hundred birthdays

Who needs parents?

I can handle myself.

Moving out today,

Not sure what to say

Waving goodbye sure is bittersweet

Driving over small bumps in the road to a conflicted beat

They said they loved me, I said, "I love you too"

And then away I flew

College will be great

I'm going to Princeton, it's the best in any state

Dad says he's proud,

When I told him, he cheered awful loud

I'm glad to be going away

To me, it's clear as day:

I don't need my parents, not in any way.

Graduated with a masters degree

My parents came to see

Now, I'm going to go get my own place

Told dad I'm not coming back home, tragic look on his face

But, hey, I don't need them, I can do this on my own

I found a house down in Florida and signed the contract: now it's set in stone

I can do this by myself

I don't need my mom or my dad.

48 years old, dad would be 80:

But it was too late, he died years ago when he got cancer, if only they had been a bit more hasty

I can't let go

And I just feel so low 

Because all along I thought I didn't need him

But now he's dead and my light begins to dim

Why didn't I see it?

This loss leaves a deep pit

He loved me

Now my sorrow churns like the sea

I loved him, maybe too much

Now I'll never feel his gentle touch

My heart is in irreparable pieces

The times I think of him steadily increases

I should have told him I loved him

I didn't, now I'm grim

I had closed myself up

I should have spilled my heart on the floor

With him, I should have spent more of my time

And you know what? I'm sick of trying to rhyme!

Who cares if I got into Princeton?

Who cares if I got a degree?

Who cares if I got a good job?

Who cares if I have money?

Because while I was doing those things:

I should have hugged him more

And talked to him

And been around

And recognized I DID NEED HIM

And now I can't.


	31. Where I'm From (Poem)

I am from sand and waves and ship horns, cutting through the night

I am from ships slicing the sea, sails in the wind

I am from staterooms, cramped and unforgiving

I am from thunder tearing the rain and lightning crackling in the dark

I am from fur and paws and claws

I am from both tender and harsh eyes

From understanding melting into nothingness

I am from grades and papers shoved in my face, spelling C,D,D,D,D,D,D,FFFFFFF

I am from hope on purple paper, bound to my heart

I am from mercy and light betraying me

I am from strength and fights, from death and light

I am from loss

I am from memories and old mahogany

From clams opening

From red, mickey, kind intentions but harsh delivery

I am from spinning with colors in arcs around me

I am from new beginnings

I am from two alternate lights clashing together

I am from blue lines crossed by one red line and white and red marks in between

I am from wood and leaves and sunlight patches shining through the seemingly endless green

I am from elastics

I am from flags waving over a crowd

I am from flowers and a glowing red H under feathers and stuffing and a couple of electrical cords

I am from a perfect mix of blue, cardboard, plastic, shoes, and totes

I am from black and white, dark and light, hard and soft, hiding below and dancing in the loft

I am from corners full of fur where the vacuum does not fit, From tunnels and chambers, oh If these walls could talk!

I am from fabric stretched across metal bars and zippers covered in cloth hiding the secrets and whispers inside

I am from towels and two simple quarters every 45 minutes.

I am from rain sliding down my face and inhaling just to feel the thrill of having water fill my lungs

I am from damp soil and earthy smells rising to greet my nose

I am from blends of happy and sad full of strength and weakness, yet appealing to all who see and lose it

I am from the beginnings of brand new lives

I am born of texts and sleepovers and Truth or Dare

I am from whispers and giggles, grins, pinky swears, and boys

I am from perfection

I am from the expectations of society

I am from "I do" and "It's a girl" and "Uh...Hi?"

I am from questions wracking my mind

I am from ignorance and innocence

I am from vocal cords and pitch and tone

I am from standing ovations

I am from slowly gaining hope


	32. Expanding (Vignette)

Scientists say that the universe is constantly expanding, that the planets are drifting apart and each galaxy is getting farther and farther away. But I don't need someone with an astronomy degree to tell me that. I can feel it.

I can feel it in the way that I am disconnecting from people around me. I can feel it in the way I am disassociating from myself. I can feel it in the quiet, in my desperate stares when I hope someone will notice me, in each chilling breeze, and in every word I never said.

I used to wonder, if the universe is expanding, what is it expanding into?

That confused me, consumed my waking moments until I realized: oblivion. That answer didn't satisfy me in the past because I didn't feel like oblivion was real. But when I stood on the edge of the world and looked out, I found it, and I began to feel it, too. In my mind. In those gaps between me and everyone else. Oblivion is all too real.

I don't need a scientist or philosopher to tell me that, either.


	33. The Family Secret (Short Story)

The thudding behind me was constant, like a heartbeat. The soles of his shoes clicked, ever so softly against the pavement. My pace quickened, the grip on the handle of my purse tightening.

I knew what they were after. It was money. Ever since my family found a uranium deposit under the cornfield, my father had been harking it off to nuclear plants, scientists, and sketchy people on eBay. There was plenty of cash in my purse and my bank account to go around.

The footsteps continued. Down one alley, around a corner, past a trashcan and a leaky pipe, I went, trying to keep myself calm. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Stay calm?

Only 5 blocks to go. I tried to convince myself that wasn't very far, but as the footfalls became louder, echoing down the Chicago streets, I knew that wasn't true.

Or maybe it wasn't the money. Maybe it was the secret. They couldn't possibly know, could they? 

I knew this was a bad idea when the whole thing started. Dad had made the deal last fall. 10lbs of uranium in exchange for a scientific secret. Dad was always into all those sci-fi movies- like he could resist. That's how my family found themselves the way we were. Able to transform into an animal, like a shapeshifter.

Could I change? Turn into a bird and fly away?

No, too dangerous. If my pursuer didn't know, they needed to stay in the dark.

The beating footsteps continued.

Click, click, click.

I could feel my phone in my back pocket. If I could grab it, I could text 911 or something. But if the man behind me saw, he might attack me. Besides shifting, I had no way to defend myself, and I couldn't put my family in jeopardy by exposing our secret just because some bum mugger was behind me.

Suddenly, I heard a different kind of click.

"Don't move."

I froze on the spot.

"Turn around. Slow."

I did as I was told. The barrel of the gun stared me down, dark as the city's polluted sky above. "What do you want from me?"

"You're one of them," The man replied. A dark hoodie shaded most of his face so I couldn't make out any features aside from a long nose and scowling lips.

I shook my head, holding out my purse. "I don't know what you're talking about. Please, just take my money, let me go."

My head was pushed against the brick wall of some sort of run-down shop, the gun pressing into my temple. "I don't want your money, you alien."

"Alien?" I asked. So they did know about the secret.

He nodded. "The ones that came last night. During the meteor shower."

"What? I'm not an alien. Please, let me go!"

He pressed the gun against my head harder. "No, you are. I saw you. Just ten minutes ago, you used your extraterrestrial powers. You made yourself turn into a cat."

It was true. I had been on a Tinder date with some guy named Steve, but he was creepy. I dismissed myself to go to the bathroom and found a window too small for me to fit through, so I opened it, turned into a cat, and left the restaurant. This guy must have seen me jump out of the window and turn back into myself.

"It's not what you think, I swear. Let's just talk about this." I pleaded.

"Oh, I know exactly what it is. You're here to take over the planet. Well too bad, because we were here first." He growled.

Well, he already knew my secret.

In a flash, I had changed myself into a mouse. I scurried between his legs in his moment of shock, scuttling behind him. He whipped around, flustered. "What the-"

And then I was a German shepherd, biting into his leg as hard as I could.

He shouted, clutching his leg where blood dribbled onto the dirty ground. I ran, legs flying as I went towards home. My attacker tried to go after me, but with the wounded leg, there was no way he'd ever catch me.

My home came into view and I transformed back into myself, wiping his blood from my lips. Ew.

As I padded up the steps of my house, his words kept running through my mind.

The aliens that came last night.

What could he have meant by that?


	34. Snow (Short Story)

Snow should be white. When it falls in backyards or is rolled into snowmen, when it gathers on your windowsill or brushes in through an opening door, it is supposed to be pure like angel wings.

The snow around me was a deep, crimson red.

A fist flew at my face and collided with my nose. Blood splattered onto the ground, staining the snow a deeper color. It felt like a bullet, and I could feel the crack in my bone. My hand flew to cover it but that only gave my attackers a chance to go for my gut. The knee that shoved into my stomach knocked the wind out of me as I staggered back. It took a few seconds to remember how to breathe, and even then my lungs burned.

I needed to get myself together. If they won, if they got down this mountain, they'd tell everyone everything. My story. My motives. My secrets. My lies. And that was something I just couldn't allow.

As the two men advanced, my mind raced for an idea. I'd taken a women's self-defense course back when I lived in New York. They always told you to go for the soft spots like the eyes, the ears, and the groin. It was good advice.

I kicked the first man as hard as I could where the sun doesn't shine and tackled the other one, fingers clawing at his eyes.

The snow's tint deepened by the second. I pushed myself off of him as the one I had kicked came forward again. He grabbed me by the arm and shoved me backward. I fell back in the snow-covered ground, which was frozen solid underneath. My head cracked against the ice and I watched as my vision blurred. There was a ringing in my ears and a heavy sensation running down my spine, paralyzing me. I was in too much pain to move.

One of the men's feet stomped on my stomach. Then my chest. A kick to the head and I was out cold.

It was wrong; this was wrong.

The snow should have been white.


	35. The Operator (Short Story)

Something's seriously wrong with my phone. It's not my fault, though. I lent it to Sarah yesterday (she desperately needed to update her Instagram) and now that I have it back, it's... well, it's hard to explain. 

See, phones are supposed to let you talk to people, right? I mean, it's their intended purpose, plus some bells and whistles. And you get calls from people with typical phone numbers. You know: area code, three digits, and then four more. But I was getting calls from WO5-997.

I googled it, trying to understand what it even meant, but Wikipedia said that that type of number hadn't been used since the 1920s-60s. It was essentially impossible to receive a call from a phone by that number. So I turned to the phonebook and came up with nothing.

The number never seemed to call when I was able to pick up the phone, and honestly, I'm not sure if I wanted it to.

Whoever was calling me did leave messages, though. Typically silent ones. If I connected my phone to my speaker and cranked the volume to max, I could hear faint breathing and sometimes a squeak that sounded like a spinning chair that needed to be oiled.

Tracing the call was hopeless, too, as you might have guessed. So mostly I tried to ignore WO5-997.

Once I got a text from that number, a feat that a phone that old could never pull off, it became harder to ignore. Especially since the picture was of me walking to school, taken from afar.

The pictures kept coming, each more unnerving than the next. A snapshot of me out to eat. Me sitting with my friends. Me on a run. Me in my bedroom letting my hair down at the end of the day, taken from right beneath my window.

I was paranoid, to say the least. My first instinct was to put myself on lockdown, but I felt like my stalker may come into my house if they knew I was panicking. Of course, I shut the blinds. I wasn't crazy. But I carried on, going to school and trying not to look over my shoulder too many times.

But when I was sent a location, that was the last straw. The map was of the woods surrounding my town, an X over a tiny gray building just barely visible through the treetops.

A smart person would go to the police or maybe just move. But I am proud to announce that I am not a smart person, and therefore I went to the woods, tracing my way through the trees until I saw the concrete building.

It was very small with a crooked antenna on top, one window too dirty to see through, and rust on the drain. 

I warily approached and turned the handle, expecting it to be locked, but the door opened, releasing an awful smell. I had a pocket knife in my hand just in case as I crept inside, letting the darkness swallow me. It was only one room, though that wasn't surprising considering the size of the building. 

A messy cot and a toilet with hand sanitizer on top sat in the corner.

A spinning chair rested in the center of the room, its back to me. In front of the chair was a table with four phones on it, each an antique model. There was a white one, a red one, a black one, and a gray one. The white, black, and red sat neatly in a row, but the gray phone was behind the black one, making me wonder why. 

On the back wall, a large, currently blank screen was mounted. Looking around at the rest of the concrete walls, I saw no windows, despite being sure that I saw one on the way in. It was very in the room dark considering that the only source of light was single, dusty bulb with a thin metal chain to turn it on and off hanging above the table, washing the phones with its dim yellow light.

I made my way toward the chair with slow steps. Tentatively, I turned it around only to see a man. A dead man. His body was a skeleton with only chunks of flesh still attached and a few strands of hair dangling from his nearly completely decomposed scalp. 

I shrieked and fell back onto the ground, realizing what the rotting stench was coming from.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut. I jumped up and ran to it, grabbing the handle and frantically turning the knob but it did no good. Pounding on it and screaming with all my might didn't help, either. 

Slowly, I turned back around to face the chair. But the body was gone, the smell along with it. The putrid scent of decay was replaced by the smell of chicken noodle soup- my favorite. A bowl sat on the table beside the phone, with it a water glass that wasn't there before.

The cot in the corner had returned to a tidy state. The dull quilt was tucked in sprucely and the pillow seemed fluffed. 

Out of nowhere, the gray phone rang. I flinched, staring at it with wide eyes. For a while, I didn't move, refusing to pick it up, but it just kept ringing until I crept forward to answer. 

I swallowed dryly. "Hello?"

"Hello. My name is Malcolm. I was the last operator."

I glanced at the empty chair. "The dead guy?"

"I suppose so. I am here to tell you what you must do. Before you are four phones. Each has a purpose. The purpose of the gray phone is to explain this to the next operator. You will never use it after this conversation until it is your time and you must instruct your successor."

"I... I don't understand."

"When the screen shows you the selected, you will be given information on their life and their rapidly approaching end. Then, you must judge them. Once you have passed judgment, you will make a call to one of the artisans, giving the word for them to take action. The selected's fate will play out and they will pass on to the next life, which you select based on what you saw on the screen and the phone you use." 

"Wait, pass on to the next life?"

"The white phone is for the pure. Call the artisan on that, and he will take them to the land of the good. Or, as they usually call it, heaven. The red is for the ones you damn. They will be taken to burn. And the black is for those that deserve neither. They will be taken to the Nothing, an endless place holding the souls of all those sent there. A place without pain, but a place without pleasure."

"Slow down, what?"

"You are the operator. Good luck." The line went dead, leaving me alone. My mind was racing, trying to piece together everything that I had been told.

The screen lit up with the image of an old man. Videos began to play, the highlights and lowlights of his life. I saw him give to the poor, adopt a dog, and go off to war. But I also saw him drink himself senseless, yell at his son, and lie. The videos ended, turning to a live feed of him on his couch, sleeping.

I sank down in the chair, watching words appear beside him.

Jim Lang, 65, heart attack.

Then I understood. I was tasked with choosing his afterlife. I was giving an impartial judgment on his life to decide where he will go. But why me? I wasn't cut out for this? Why should I have to play God?

Hesitantly, I stared at the phones before glancing at the door, but it was gone. There was no exit. If I couldn't leave, if this was my life now, I might as well do my job.

I grabbed the black phone, summoning my courage, and put it to my ear. "Hello?"

"I await your command," said a man who I assumed was the so-called-artisan. 

I swallowed anxiously. "Do it."

The man on the screen jerked and woke up, pressing a hand to his chest. I watched with wide eyes as he died. Then it ended and he fell still. Shakily, I set down the phone. 

After doing my job once, I was feeling more confident as I watched the next person's life play out before me. I saw her beat her daughter, hit a cat with her car and keep driving, and rob a gas station. 

With certainty, I picked up the red phone. After all, I was the operator.


	36. When the Fighting Ends (Short Story)

Wind whipped across the gnarled, ragged field. The grass was mostly crushed and bent from the boots that had marched across it mere hours ago. The bodies of young soldiers dotted the area and the grass was stained red everywhere I looked.

"Hey, you! Get back to work!" Called one of the other men. He swung a body up onto one of the carts we had pulled out here without any regard for respect for the fallen.

I walked across the broken grass. The smell of gunpowder and smoke still lingered under the grey sky, filling my lungs. It stung a bit, but I didn't care. At least I felt something. The rest of me was numb, both literally and figuratively.

The cart nearest to me creaked and the wheels groaned on the uneven surface as someone I didn't recognize moved it out further. She picked up a body and lugged it into the cart, panting.

I swallowed my dread and went to another body, looking down into the ashen face of a man. He had short brown hair and what I thought were green eyes. It was hard to tell once they clouded over. Carefully, I picked him up and put him in the cart the woman had hauled over here.

The next body was far too small to be dead. It wasn't fair, but that's life. C'est la vie, right?

My sister tapped my shoulder and I turned to look at her. "Yes?"

She looked around the quiet battlefield with troubled blue eyes. "I found dad."

My blood ran cold. I already knew he was gone, but when I looked over at the carts, scanning them until I spotted his limp figure among the piles of dead, well... I think that's the moment I grew up.

"Do you want to go back home?" I offered.

She shook her head. "No. There's work to be done. We don't have time to sit around and cry. It's not like there's a point to it. It won't bring them back and it won't win us the war. Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever will."

She trudged across the terrain until she spotted a soldier with a bullet hole right in his forehead. Her arms looped under his and she gently pushed him into the cart.

It took a long time to get them all together and dump them in a pit that others had dug while we collected the corpses. Our original plan was to bury them all, but there were too many. Instead, we poured gasoline over them, said a prayer, struck a match, and tossed it in. The match fell like they did and burned alongside each and every soldier until all that was left were embers and ashes.


	37. Snowflakes (Poem)

Late nights

A small desk

Soft lamp light

I write and I write and I write

Because if I stare at the document before me, I won't see the snow

I don't want to see the snow

I don't want to know it's winter

Because if I stare out the window, I'll think of You

As I see it gather on the sill

I'll think of Your smooth skin

And the snowflakes that get caught like crystals in Your eyelashes

And the softness of Your touch

And the winters we spent together

And the dress You wore

And the feeling of Your arms around me in front of the fireplace

And the flames reflecting in Your perfect, pale green eyes

And the tender pink Your cheeks flush in the cold

And the quiet words You said

And the long conversations

And the secrets we shared

And the nights we slept buried together under the blankets of my bed

And the soup You love that I always kept in my pantry just for You

And the movies we watched pressed close on the couch

And the books we read

And the socks You left at my house that are still in my drawer

And the t-shirt You forgot that I wear when I feel alone

And the comfort of Your sweatshirt, sweater, and smell

And the glances we exchanged, both too afraid to speak of our feelings

And the walks we took, kicking up the snow

And the terrible snowmen we built

And the sound of You singing quietly to yourself

And the excitement that ignited when You talked about your passions

And the sight of You smiling back at me in the whirling winter

And the golden tangles of Your hair in the morning as the light shines out that very same window that I so desperately avoid

No

I will stare down at this document

At this desk

I won't see the snow

I won't see the girl that I so deeply know


	38. I Believe (Vignette)

I believe in small things that other people may not notice. Things that many would overlook amongst all of the big, bright, flamboyant things that surround them. I believe in soft piano music in the background as I write an essay. I believe in vinyl spinning on a record player and the slightly grainy sounds that come out of its speakers. I believe in soft rain dripping down a window and the reflection of car headlights on the shining streets in the late evening. I believe in a cup of chamomile tea in my hands to keep them warm in the slightly chilly air. I believe in annotated novels with cracked, dusty spines that release that perfect old book smell when they are opened. I believe in the beauty found inside solitude, quiet, and time to think. I believe in simple quotes and polaroids hung on string to display moments of friends smiling or family laughing. I believe in warm buttery croissants on small glass plates as I eat at a table for two, by myself, in a cozy coffee shop. I believe in poetry scribbled on chalkboard walls that whisper deep secrets anonymously... I believe in the little things.


	39. Small Coffins (Poem)

I learned to drive in a cemetery

I was 15

My mom sat shotgun and I got the hang of the brakes

She kept telling me to slow down

Or that I was breaking too hard

She said if she died early she wanted to be buried there

I said I didn't, but if I had to, I'd like to rest by the pond.

When my grandmother died she was laid in silver

It was padded inside for her to rest on

She was beautiful

But she's decaying now

With the bracelet I braided for her still on her wrist

It's probably gross inside and not as alluring any more

But when I sit at her headstone tying knots in blades of grass, crying, and speaking to her, I don't think of her like that

She chose a plot where you can see the Taco Bell drive-through

My family still laughs about that.

A peer of mine died in a freak accident

The summer before freshman year of high school began

People made wristbands

Everyone claimed to have been his friend

For attention or for sympathy

Even people that were cruel to him

It was ironic to see them attach his memorial hashtag on their unrelated Instagram posts.

The same thing happened when a senior at my high school got into a car crash

Her name was Cassidy

She died

Her friends cried

People passed out purple ribbons in remembrance of her

Everyone had one

If you didn't, you were weird

If you didn't, you were a bad person

Cassidy's death became a trend

People that had spoken to her once stood up and claimed she changed their lives

But that wasn't true

Sometimes I found it hard not to laugh when people dramatically told the story of how they bumped into her in the hall once

Or how they were pretty sure she smiled at them by the bathroom sinks one time

The teachers gave out chocolates to make kids feel better

The ones that didn't know her marched up 

And took several.

I wish I were dead

The days drag on and on and on

Each as miserable as the next

And every night as I go to sleep

It's like I'm laying down in a small, small coffin

And its lid shuts

And I'm alone.

I wonder what hashtag they'd start if I finally slit my wrists

I wonder which of my bullies would reference the trauma of my death as an excuse for not doing their homework

I wonder how they would continue to use me even after I was six feet underground.

They say the small coffins are the heaviest

But I wish I were in one

Sleeping beside the pond

In the cemetery where I learned how to drive

When I pass it I think about when I was 15

And I hit the brake pedal too hard.

I think I still do that

I press the brake

And never the gas

Because when I do

I go too fast

And I crash.

Someday, though.

Someday I'll lay down

In a small, small coffin

Maybe then I can finally get some sleep. 

When I do, make my ribbons blue.


	40. The Steel Wall (Short Story)

Based on a real life experience of mine. I wrote this in 6th grade, so it's not the best quality. 

I was incredibly bored and yet anxious at the same time. After all, there was a basket of candy right in front of my face, but I couldn't touch it yet! I glanced at the clock on the Camp Friedenswald gift shop wall. In a couple of minutes, we would have to move to craft, and it would be a while before we could go back to the gift shop with one of our cabin leaders being so overprotective of everyone. Geez. I had been waiting here for 15 minutes. Where could Grace possibly be? I'm a fifth-grader- I need to split a candy with her, or else how am I going to get my energy for the day?

A kid ran in. He was in a huge panic. What is it? Do I really care? Nah, I'm sure he got mud in his pants, you wouldn't believe how freaked kids get when that happens. Been there, done that.

"A girl fell off the pegboard and hurt her arm! HELP!" He cried. I'm not surprised. Ian Devore fell off the pegboard earlier today and blacked out, but he's fine now. Many kids have suffered cuts and bruises, and someone is bound to die on that thing.

I turned back to the candy. Skittles, Snickers, M&M's... Oh! Sour patch kids!

Then I heard Grace shout and I turned. Finall-

"JAYASHREE!" I screamed. We ran to see her clutching her arm and being helped in by Mrs. Ford, my Math teacher. She's nice, but I don't think she likes me that much. Oh well.

I ran to Jayashree and the teachers settled her onto the couch in the main building. I talked to her. Apparently, she was on the second-to-top-notch of the board when she leaned back a bit and fell. Her head hit the ground and her arm smashed into the bench.

Mrs. Doms, (An awesome teacher and my current favorite) left to find Mrs. Khan, the camp doctor. When Mrs. Khan arrived, she grabbed Jayashree by the incorrect arm and pulled her into the other room. Jayashree yelped and I nearly socked Mrs. Khan. I begged to go with Jayashree, then began to argue. Then I ran towards the room. Mrs. Ford grabbed me and I struggled. Nothing was keeping me from Jayashree!

"ABIGAIL! Stop it or you can go home!" she barked.

I considered that thought but decided I would be of no use to Jayashree at home and stopped. I cried in the bathroom for 25 minutes, then left. That's a new record.

I came back. They may keep me out, but they can't stop me from giving them dirty looks. Finally, they let me go in. Out of fear from my now murderous looks and thoughts, or they were tired of my muttering, I don't know. I hope the former.

I ran in and was about to embrace Jayashree, but thought better of it. Mrs. Khan said that it isn't broken, just bruised and I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Although I just glared at Mrs. Khan. She hurt Jayashree. I felt ready to hurt her.

Mrs. Ford collected us and took everyone to the craft station. As I walked I stupidly thought, "I never got my candy."

As we walked back to the cabin for break I thought about the god's eyes we made in Craft. Jayashree only had one working arm and still made a better one than me.

We arrived at the cabin and Jayashree (With Grace and I's assistance) got up to her bed. She's on one of the top bunks out of the 6 beds. So am I, with Grace below.

I grabbed my stuff and began to shower in the tiny bathroom and recalled the events that have happened. I was horribly sad, and terrified. I was happy that she was okay, but... I began to cry again. I was in the shower, so no tears showed, but they were there. It was too loud outside the black cherry wood door to hear.

I got out and Grace showered. I read and waited. It was time to move to capture the flag, and Jayashree couldn't get up. We rescued her, but it was kind of scary. We always called her the steel wall, because she NEVER cried, got hurt, sick, or poisoned, even when she ate random berries from the woods. It's kinda' scary.

We played capture the flag and then we met up for campfire. We started singing and dancing. Jayashree didn't. She just sat there like a rock. A sad, pained rock.

She told me that kids thought she was faking and were making fun of her, telling her to get over herself. That was sad.

When it was time for bed, we started down the hill, and Jayashree CRIED! She CRIED! THE STEEL WALL IS DOWN! Worry threatened to eat me alive.

She went down to Mrs. Khan. I sat on the bed staring at the wall stupidly, lost in thought. Grace began to try and scare me like she always does on break, and I was terrified. Not from her, from Jayashree, but I played along.

Jayashree came back. She told us it was mildly damaged-but not broken, but her dad was taking her home from camp early. And I began crying. Again. Geez, how much water do I have IN me?

A few days later, we found out that it was, indeed, very broken. Luckily, her recovery was swift.


	41. Stationery (Short Story)

I skipped along the path to my house, carefully avoiding the cracks, just like my friend May told me. I wouldn't want to break mom's back, after all. I opened the front door to my house and ran up the stairs, tracking in some dirt and flopped down on my bed. Daddy's voice was faint in the background, saying something about this program called Hospice Care, I don't know what that is much. 

I swung my backpack onto my desk, Princess Cinderella's face smiling up at me. I loved her, she was my favorite. I reached my hand into my candy bucket with all my treats from Halloween, I went as my hero, my mommy. It said six on the side of my bucket because I'm six. I smiled and went to get my Barbies to play with when mom came in. I loved mom, even if she didn't have any hair, and couldn't move around much.

"Hey Ava!" she exclaimed. She picked me up on her lap and tickled my sides. Lucky, our puppy, ran in and jumped up on my bed.

"Stop, mom!" I laughed, kicking my legs.

She smiled and stopped tickling me. She dramatically said, "I have a surprise for you!"

My eyes got big and wide, a surprise? "What is it, what is it?" I asked, practically bursting with joy.

She reached into her purse, slowly and, just as slowly removed it. The moment I saw what it was, I screamed and grabbed it, hugging it. It was a small, white teddy bear. I smiled down at it, then frowned. "Mommy, but it's white. You said you are a little sick, and the color for the sickness is white, so why get a white bear if white is sad?"

Mommy started to tear up, "Because, darling, if I ever leave, this bear will remind you of me!"

"Don't cry, mommy. After all, if you leave, you'll come back, right?"

Mommy started to cry. "Yes, darling, I'll- I'll come back."

"Good!" I exclaimed, "I'm going to name it... Jennifer! Just like you!"

That was a week ago. Now, I sat in my room. Everyone was crying now. I don't know why, exactly. Daddy said mommy is gone. I asked him when she would be back, but he didn't answer, he just cried harder and walked away. But that's okay. When mommy is back, she'll make everyone happy, she always does with her funny jokes. My favorite is the one about the chicken.

I sat down at my desk and got a piece of paper. If mommy is gone... I should write her a letter. It was short, but she always likes whatever I make. Maybe I'll be an artist one day! I would love that.

January 9, 2016

Dear Mommy,

Hi! It's me, Ava. Daddy's really sad, I don't understand why. Everyone is sad. Please come back soon, and tell them jokes. Maybe the chicken one? Daddy likes that one.

Adios,

Ava

I put the letter in our mailbox. It was gone the next day, and daddy kept looking at me funny. I decided if the letters were going this fast I should write more.

January 10, 2016

Dear Mommy,

My last letter went so fast! But you're not back yet. Please come back soon, it's sad around here.

Adios,

Ava

Time progressed slowly and the dates flew by, one for every day. January, February, March, April. Then it was 2016, then 2017 and before I knew it I was growing.

September 5, 2022

Dear Mom,

Hey. It's Ava, as always. I'm 12 today. I guess I understand that you're not coming back, I understood that a long time ago. May is being difficult, she left me, and we aren't friends anymore. I don't understand why, exactly. She's saying something about moving forward, and that I'm holding her back. I wish you were here to help me through this. I wonder where my letters are going? They still disappear from the mailbox. Anyway, I love you.

Adios,

Ava

More and more years passed, leaves, snow, flowers, sun, blurring together. The clock always followed the same pattern, though, just like my letters.

May 14, 2028

Dear Mom,

Hey. It's Ava, again, just like yesterday, and just as it will be tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm 18 years old. Exciting, right? I wish you were here. I have been having a difficult time lately. Jeremy dumped me, I miss May, and I am having trouble looking for colleges, and time's running out. I'm so... so angry! Why does this happen to me? Honestly, I find myself wishing you never even gave birth to me! But, you're still my mom, and I love you.

Adios,

Ava

April 2, 2029

Dear Mom,

I MADE IT! I TRULY MADE IT! I MADE IT INTO CRANBROOK! I am so excited, I... I just don't even have the words. Cranbrook Academy of the Arts... me! One of the top art schools! I... wow. I can't wait! I'm going to be an artist! Love you!

Adios,

Ava

July 19, 2040

Dear Mother,

That's it. I can't. I can't be an artist. I thought I had talent, but it was all a lie, no one likes me, no one cares. I'm getting a job elsewhere. I'm married and have a child on the way! I can't be broke at a time like this! I'm living in a tiny apartment in a rough area that I can't raise a child in! I'll find something else.

Adios, 

Ava

April 30, 2041

Dear Mother,

I had my firstborn! It's a boy! I couldn't be happier! Except... We're in an even smaller apartment, and I'm working at a fast-food restaurant. My husband works, but he works at Walmart as an employee, and it's not making much. I don't want my baby, John, to grow up in this place. I feel kind of like a useless mother.

Adios,

Ava

February 20, 2090

Dear Mommy,

This very well may be my last letter, after all, I'm at the ripe old age of 80, and I can feel my body failing me. I look back and wish that things had gone differently. John grew up rough but he's a doctor now and has kids of his own, three of them. I'm a grandma! I feel so proud of my son. As you know, my husband already died. 

Now I sit in my room at the nursing home, hand shaking as I write this. I love you, so much. I lost that love for a long time in my 40s. I really wish that you could have been here and seen your grandchildren, see the world progress. Although, it can be lonely. When this wonderful world moves on, it seems to do so without you. That's what I've learned, but so much more. Lessons about family, friendship, and fights that I wish you could have grown old to reflect on as well. I feel like your cancer robbed you of that. No one deserves to be taken like that, absolutely no one. It leaves you feeling empty inside. No one should feel empty inside. 

The other day, John was searching through daddy's old room and found a small box. It was full of every single letter I had ever written to you. No wonder my letters stopped disappearing after I moved out of the house. Now I place it under my own bed along with the letters I wrote after I moved out. One for every single day I lived. I love you, mommy, and I wish you could have been here. You're amazing, and you are still my hero, just like that Halloween 74 years ago. I love you.

Adios,

Ava

As I concluded the letter, I set it under my bed and lay down in the sheets that smelled of cleaner. I shut my eyes in the dark room and lay there for a long, long time. But I couldn't sleep. I opened my eyes, that had tears in them and got up from my bed. My ancient feet that had walked so far in their lifetime took me to my desk. I opened it and started to sob. I picked up the item I needed and went back to my bed, laying down. I shut my eyes and squeezed a tiny, decaying, white teddy bear. I never again wrote another letter, for I never awoke from that peaceful slumber.


	42. A Tribute (Vignette)

I can still see a butterfly wind chime jingling in the wind, its pitches soothing my mind. It hung on a small metal hook on the front porch of my grandma's house. The way it tingled always made me envision fairies' small feet dancing on top of the wind as if the breeze were a ballroom floor, spinning, leaping, laughing into infinity. It's small metal rods would touch, and it always entertained me when the air swept through in a whirlwind of percussion. The butterfly above the musical rods twirl around, orange, black, white, and pale yellow wings that flew with the fairies. My grandma had so many wind chimes posted outside her cozy home, and they created a symphony, wood played lower notes, metal higher, the smaller the wind chime the higher the pitch would climb. But that little wind chime was my favorite. It truly represented grandma's soul; free, musical, happy, true, and light. My grandma had the soul of a butterfly. Now, terminal cancer seems to have clipped her wings. So when a project occurred in my language arts class, I knew she was whom I should honor.

I have many personal memories with my grandma. She lived right by the woods, and two abandoned houses were in those woods. We used to get food and have a picnic in those houses, the light streaming in through the leaves, the song of the birds whistling through the air, and the warmth of the sun kissing my face. There was a small creek nearby, we would go down and splash in the water, soaking each other and then running back to the house, dripping wet and looking like hooligans, but we didn't care. We used to bake in her kitchen, we baked so many pies that the family couldn't eat them all. Mainly cherry, pecan, apple, pumpkin, and more. But she always made puppy chow, a delicious snack, and no matter how much puppy chow I eat, no matter who made it, if it's not hers, it just tastes bitter. We used to have Easter egg hunts in her backyard. She never hid the eggs very well, but that was fine, we still had fun. I always hated leaving her house, mom has a picture of me staring out the window of the airplane, down at the city with tears down my cheeks and troubled, big, blue eyes. Oh, and her passion for garage sales. It was a weird obsession, but it was hers. She could practically sniff out a garage sale and get almost anything for about half the price. She could find anything you needed at a garage sale. She would get me lots of books and a plethora of clothes and toys. We went to her home every single Christmas. Every single one. She never decorated the house unless we came, or so my uncle said. We had this odd tradition of having Casey's Pizza on Christmas Eve, and we opened gifts on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas. Every Christmas in my memory included her. Her hugs brought happiness to my childhood, shed light on the dark corners of everything. I loved her. I love her.

So, if I was to summarize her, I would say that she was the light of my childhood. She was my motivation, my smile, my name. She taught me how to say my name. She was a teacher, a baker, a gardener, a collector, and an all-around incredible person. In one word, she was: energetic. If you ignored her body and only saw her soul, you would have thought her a child. She showed me that anyone can be happy at any age if they want to be. She was my grandma, a butterfly. I hope she's happy when she, the butterfly, flies up, higher and higher, into the heavens, into heaven, when she leaves her old body for a young one, still the monarch she always was, spreading her wings, the butterfly dancing above the wind chime on her front porch.


	43. Crack (Short Story)

I heaved an anxious sigh and fidgeted with the ribbons tying back my hair. My feet paced the floor. The other students whispered amongst themselves, even though our teachers had told them not to. Finally, I was graduating high school, but nerves were eating my insides like a disease. Mr. Beagle, the Principle, was delivering a speech on hard work and dedication, while also asking for PTA donations. As if anyone would give any, everyone knew that Da Vinci High's PTA was the worst in the history of the universe. The only one that really did anything on the PTA was Mrs. Yew, Tang Yew's mom. Mrs. Yew was standing off to the side of the stage, waving enthusiastically at the crowd. Finally, Mr. Beagle started handing out diplomas and whatnot. Personally, I was about to have a heart attack from my nerves. Stage fright stinks, I'll tell you that.

"Emma Geronimo," Mr. Beagle called my best friend's name.

"Wish me luck," she whispered and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Good luck!"

She smiled a polished smile at the audience and went to take it. Just as her hand brushed the paper in the blinding gymnasium lights, a crack ripped through the world.

All the people went dead silent. Mr. Beagle's eyes widened after he heard that. The kids next to me froze. Emma Geronimo swayed and toppled off the front of the stage. On her forehead, a gunshot wound began to pour blood upon the gym's floor.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then chaos broke out and people began to run from the room.

"PLEASE WALK CALMLY OUT THE DOORS, PLEASE! WALK, WALK SAFELY! NO RUNNING, THAT IS NOT SAFE! LISTEN TO ME, DO NOT RUN OUT THE-" Mr. Beagle's directions were cut off with another crack and he collapsed, still on the stage. The chairs we seniors were seated in got in the way as people tried to clammer off the stage. They fell and hit other students as more cracks rang out. I saw two of the popular girls trip in their high heels and lose their lives as more students fled. A toddler that had come to see their older sibling's graduation was laying on the floor, motionless. Someone's mother was crying over their body, but another crack sounded and she fell next to her child. The emo kid that always sat in the back of the class's head was at an odd angle as his body rolled off the stage. The genius of our school year and valedictorian, Amanda, collapsed, blood pooling from her stomach.

But I wasn't focused on them. I raced down the steps, away from the exit, to Emma's side. Blood was matted in her hair. Her eyes were blank and unfocused. No breath came from Emma's lips. She was dead.

"Emma! Emma, no! No, no, no, please wake up..." I begged, but I knew that her eyes would not open.

Another crack and a metal bullet hit the stage right near me, clanging the floor with a metallic sound. Yet another bullet barely missed me. Whoever this shooter was, they were aiming for me.

I dove underneath one of the benches in the gym. A bullet thunked into the wood of the bench just as I pulled my leg in. Another one hit the bench right after, louder than before. And another. And another. And another, each time louder than the last. 

The gunman was getting closer.

I wiggled my way further under the bench, pressing my back against the wall. Cornered, I was cornered. All that was behind me was a stone wall. All that was in front of me was the gunman, coming closer.

An insane idea came to mind, and I almost cringed at the thought of it. I reached my arm out from the bench and seized Emma's shirt. She had always been incredibly light-weight, so I dragged her under the bench. I put her body over mine and squished down underneath. Breathing ragged and tears streaming down my face, I shut my eyes as tight as possible.

The footsteps. The gunshots. The wood splintering. My heartbeat. My breathing. The shooter's breathing. The loudest crack of all as another bullet pierced my best friend's dead body.

"I know you're under there, Katelyn Ruck."

My blood froze in my veins. I knew that voice. I've know that voice for years.

I gently moved the body of whom I was certain was my best friend, Emma Geronimo, and looked up into the shooter's eyes- my best friend's eyes.

"Emma?"


	44. Helen, Marie, and the Neighbor's House (Short Story)

Part I

Fire. That's all that my eyes would absorb. It was strange, so horrifying, yet I was unable to shield my vision from the auburn massacre before me. Hot was the air as it closed in, the flames warming the sky to the point where one would sweat if his or her skin ever came into contact with the boiling atmosphere.

I clutched the leash in a death grip as the mystery canine struggled to come into closer proximity of the house, too close. A petite dachshund with a primrose pink collar proceeded to bark incessantly which proved only to further agitate the unknown dog before me. I focused all of the strength that existed in my, frankly, quite skinny arms on containing the cyan collared dog. If only it had a tag, I could have used its proper title, then there was a chance the mutt would reply. I highly doubted that Helen was its true name.

All thoughts over the dog were false, of course. I was willing to contemplate even the name of a dog to distract my mind from the truth, a truth that was hard to face. Each thought, each word, each letter was forced, just ideas that my panicked mind forced upon itself to give it a distraction. Eventually, I gave way, realizing that I couldn't stop my pulse from quickening, my brow from perspiring, and my eyes from dilating.

Then, with a shudder and a large BANG! The window over the garage shattered with heat and flames billowed out, large and terrifying. The shape and size of the fire reminded me of the scribbles I created as a child where loops and swirls overlapped enough that it seemed a large mass of the ink. This is what the flames resembled in a much less innocent, kindergarten manner. I felt alone as if no one loved me.

My gaze quickly sprang upon Marie, who was next to me and seemed very, very upset. I looked at the phone in my hand, an iPhone 6S and handed it to Marie. Her finger made contact with the calling icon and flipped to my Favorites section, selecting her home phone. She began to cry as she explained to her mother the events that led to that house being in flames. Her voice was an anchor to the ground, visions of the day's scenes flashed through my mind, a projection of my life that seemed remotely normal. It seemed as though it was an alternate reality...

Part II

"UGH! Frozen. Again. Why does this stupid thing keep freezing?" I complained gazing at my avatar, Elsa on the screen. I had pleaded with Marie to let me play as Black Widow, but alas, no. Previously, I had been in the middle of building a castle when the Xbox 360 froze for the 4th time.

"It's because we built the most awesome Disney Infinity world ever, and it just can't handle the awesomeness!" Marie informed me with a smile.

Catching on, I replied, "Yeah. I'm sure that's why. What do you want to do now since apparently, we are too awesome?"

"We could go outside. It's nice out." A hopeful smile slid over her lips.

"No, you know I hate going outside," I pointedly reminded her, and she deflated dramatically. Noticing this I sighed and added, "but if you really want to..."

"Yay!" She grabbed my wrist and dragged me outdoors. She pulled me to the ground, likely leaving a yellow-green smear on my jeggings. Marie chatted up a storm over typical girl things to which I would give a brief reply and shrug off without much commentary. Finally, in my distracted state of mind, I spotted a dog down the road, lying on the street.

"MARIE! LOOK!" The balls of my feet were already pounding the ground and my legs blurred as they carried me closer to the quite probably wounded canine. Marie followed suit, a mixture of concerns escaping from her mouth. We reached the dog and knelt alongside it. It looked up and wagged it's tail fiercely. It stood and Marie and I looked it over. No injuries. It lay down again, exposing its belly. A female.

"It's a girl, I think," I briefed Marie who looked at me funny then returned to a neutral expression. A flash of cyan brought my eyes to her neck. "She has a collar... but no tags. Maybe we should get her microchipped." A hand grabbed my shoulder. Yelping, I spun around to see my mother. I breathed a sigh of relief. "You gave me a heart attack!"

"No," she replied, "you gave me a heart attack. I didn't know where you two were..." She finally noticed the dog. "A dog? Is it okay?"

"Yeah, no injuries," Marie chirped, "but it's probably lost. Victoria said we should get it microchipped."

Mom looked at me sternly, "Tori, I'm painting the foyer, I can't. Why don't we just hold onto it for a while and we'll see if their owners come around, okay?"

I nodded and stole a glance at Marie, who also gave a nod. Mom went ahead as Marie and I struggled to get the pooch out of the road. This was no easy feat, for the animal kept laying down and wagging its tail, desperate for a belly rub.

Eventually, it lay in the grass and Marie and I began an investigation. Feeling as though I was Sherlock Holmes, I rattled off my hypothesis. "Fur is really hot, it's probably been out here for a while. It's clearly owned by someone since it wants us to rub its stomach and has a collar. It looks like a Husky, sort of. It seems more likely that it's a mixed breed. It's big, yeah, but for a dog no. It seems like a puppy."

"We should get it somewhere safe and give it some water if you're right about being outside for a long time. It's hot out," Marie suggested, then asked, "What should we call it?"

"Hmm... How about Julia?."

"No! Let's make it Helen." Marie countered.

I laughed, "Then it could be Helen of Troy!"

Marie stared at me. "No, Tori, just... just no."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever, Helen it is- Helen not of Troy. Now let's move this thing!"

After a good 15 minutes, 20 since we had taken Helen, 25 since she was spotted, and the discovery that Helen could both "sit" and "shake," we turned to my mother for ideas, and she definitely delivered. "Take it on a walk with our leash and ask everyone if they know this dog, and let her guide you. She might take you to her home."

So I left Marie with Helen and went to fetch the leash, a bit ripped, dusty and in the back of our storage. I exited through the front door instead. Is it a bit warmer than before, or is that just me?

Then everything broke loose.

"TORI GET THE LEASH ON THAT DOG!"

"WHERE DID HELEN GO?"

"I HAVE HER!"

"GET HER ON THE LEASH! TORI, DON'T JUST STAND THERE! TORI!"

I grabbed Helen and put her on the leash, confused. "What's-"

"STAY BY THE HOUSE, DON'T LEAVE!" my mother yelled as she ran towards our neighbor's house. And then I saw it.

Smoke.

Part III

The smoke started small, but then it got worse. Great sounds like claps of thunder washed over me, then shuddered and went further till they faded into nothingness. A man was kicking the oak door facing the street, hard. One last boom and the door fell down, going inward. Smoke came out of the door like steam comes out of a kettle. It came in mass quantities, blocking 25% of the brilliant blue sky from my vision. It became impossible to see three-fourths of the house through the black swells coming from every crack and every crevice of 14472 Worthington Dr.

Mom came back, and I began to interrogate her. "Did you call 91-"

"Yes!"

"How long until the firemen-"

"We don't know."

"How did it catch-"

"No idea. Those two men," she pointed to two men, both strangers, "saw smoke, called and kicked down the door. They called for people, but no one responded. They sent in Mr. Jones." Mr. Jones was a marine that lived next door with a wife, three children, and a full-grown golden retriever who I frequently dog-sat for. They were a very nice family. "He went in five feet then had to get out, too much smoke and fire. I read them the address and they told the operator. Now, hold on to that dog! When the sirens come she might freak out!" With those last instructions, Mom ran back to the men to converse with them.

I turned 90 degrees to Marie, who looked at the house wide-eyed. "Oh, when are they going to get here?" There was no need to ask for clarification as to who she was asking about. She was obviously referring to the firemen. "When, when, when?" She repeated this question over and over for what seemed, in our angst, an hour, but it was much more probable that it was a mere two minutes.

The smoke grew and grew. I could easily smell it, seeping into my clothes. It would take multiple showers to rid myself of that smell. Then the fire trucks arrived, a blessing to my eyes. Somehow, that was a comfort, the idea that they were there. The idea that there may be people in the house was so frightening, and these trucks made everything seem like it was going to get better. But it wasn't. Anything pure and loving, anything happy, was virtually nonexistent. At least, that's what I thought.

The fire just kept growing. They sprayed and sprayed, pumping water from Lake Taddington, the lake behind the burning household.

The mailman drove by and stopped. He leaned out the window and shouted, "THEY'RE ON VACATION, THEY AREN'T IN THERE, THEIR MAIL HAS BEEN ON HOLD FOR A WEEK NOW!"

My flipping tummy settled a little. Good things, love, and the light seemed a bit brighter now, but still nearly out of sight. The mailman drove away. Then the flames grew higher yet if that was even possible.

The trauma finally brought my mind into focus, sharpening my senses and clearing my mind. Helen. I had to see if anyone knew Helen and could give me information. I asked each person that came to my yard (about 50) if they recognized Helen, but no. I was about to give up in despair, until I asked one more time, a friendly neighbor of mine named Kim who lived behind us, and she said, "Yeah, that's Cecelia," Cecelia's head shot up at her name, "she lives down the street, third to the right from mine. If you leave her on the porch she should be fine, she'll stay."

So, I grabbed Cecelia's (ex-Helen) 's leash and ran down to that neighbor, Kim's, house and then went three doors down the street, Tebay. I ran the doorbell frantically, seeing a cop car peeling down the street like a red and blue blur. The sirens rang out, high pitches, low pitches, high pitches, low pitches, over and over and over; constant as the tides of Lake Michigan, constant as my heartbeat that was so fast it felt as though it might stop, constantly, constantly, constantly in a never-ending cycle.

No one answered the door. I decided to leave her, Kim said she would be okay.

I returned to the yard. And it was a terrible sight.

Flames... Just... so many flames... and they kept worsening, just as constant as the firemen kept relentlessly spraying.

Constant. Constantly. Constant.

And then I realized that if I could just see the house from a different angle, I could get a photo. Maybe it was selfish, but I wanted one. Something as normal as a photograph seemed like a dream come true. I just wanted the trauma to end! That's all, just for it to be over and for me and all the people, I love to be safe.

Marie and I ran down and viewed it from the front. That was a bad idea. The house looked much better from my previous perspective, I wasn't expecting the burning battle before me. It was sickening, making my stomach churn like the ocean.

I was a child. Sure, I have a lot of strength on the outside, a normal, smart, 7th-grade girl. Victoria Angie Peterson, talented kid. But truthfully, when I lay down to sleep at night, what am I? I'm a kid, just a scared, pathetic little kid that's trying to prove herself. I'm just a child. I feel like junk, unloved. But I was strong enough to at least hit the flashing red button on my phone and capture the scene on my phone. That photo might be useful.

I fell onto the ground. Marie gave me a side hug, and I returned the hug. We sat for a while, watching, thinking, listening. The sound of the water, the crackling of the flames, a few loud sounds from things falling, the shouts of people, and the other dog with the pink collar barking. Pondering the fate of that family, of that house. Watching the red stain the sky, which was becoming less and less beautiful.

I got out my phone and flipped to favorites and selected my dad's cell phone. Dad, I loved him so much, I wish he were here to give me a hug and tell me everything was alright. Dad was away on business, some big meeting. He had no idea what was going on. I tapped his name.

Ring... Ring... Ring... Ri- "Hello?"

"Dad!" I yelped, "Hi it's Tori!"

"Wha... what is that sound? Is that water? What're all the clashes? Why is there shouting?"

My heart drooped even further, "Dad, the neighbor's house is on fire..."

Dad sighed, "What? Tori, I can't hear you! It's so loud!"

I could barely hear him either. I turned and ran from the scene to seek out a quieter location. I went to the woods by our house and sat down in a quiet environment. I could still faintly hear the noises my father had questioned.

"Why is it quiet now?" I heard more sirens. From what I could see, five or six more fire trucks had come down, sirens blaring to extinguish the fire. "ARE THOSE SIRENS? TORI, ARE YOU OKAY?"

"Dad, calm down," I answered, heavy-hearted, "I'm fine. The neighbor's house is burning." We had a discussion describing all that had happened. I began to cry, bursting into tears. I stammered and concluded my story. ...and n- now I'm t- t- talking to you..."

And my dad replied gently, "Tori? Are you scared?"

I thought for a second and nodded. I wasn't sure exactly what I was scared of, but I felt afraid. "Yes..." I whispered into the phone.

"Don't be, honey. I love you. Let me talk to your mom." So wiping my tears, I ran back to mom who took the phone. I took on her role of telling the neighbors that drifted over what was happening. Mom returned my phone and I went back to Marie, who had migrated over to my porch. Next to her was Elizabeth, my other best friend. I call her a friend, but I truly love her like a sister. I'd take a bullet for her. I ran over to them.

"Beth! What are you doing here?" I asked her.

"Well, it started when I was at dance practice like I always am." It was true. Dance controlled Beth's life. "And my mom, dad, and I were driving home and we saw the smoke. Mom and dad had to drive home because the police said it was too crowded but they let me out. So I could stay. We were really scared, when we saw the smoke we were like, 'What if it's the Peterson's house!' and my dad stepped on the gas."

I laughed, "Seriously? Your dad hates me!"

She huffed, "Well, Tori, apparently he doesn't hate you as much as we thought."

I smiled a bit, "See? I'm not THAT bad!"

The fire seemed a lot smaller now that I was sitting with a few of my favorite people in the world, people I loved. We sat together, and my heart stopped aching.

Eventually, they did overpower the fire. The house was left steaming and smoking. The people went home. All but one of the trucks left. Cars stopped crowding around the house. My loving mom went back to mowing the yard. The other neighbors went back inside. People returned from work. Everything was normal. And looking around, it became clear to me: people loved me. My mom, Beth, Marie, Dad, even Beth's dad didn't hate me, even when I spilled paint on their carpet once. They loved me. The neighbors rallied to start raising money for the people in that house.

The police officer had talked to everyone to find anything out. The neighbors in that house always kept to themselves, and no one had anything but their home phone. But apparently some lady went to the same hairdresser as the lady that lived there and they called the hairdresser and they had the number. The people that lived there were called the Taylors. They straightened out the details and poured chemicals over hot areas to prevent them from reigniting. One firewoman climbed the ladder and went into the house, spraying the chemicals everywhere. She came out with the report that only one room hadn't been reduced to nothing, and even that room was nearly destroyed. The trucks left after an hour or so, and the police officer left, saying to make sure no teens go inside the house tonight, and that he would drive by a lot. Then he left.

But people that really took the fire to heart stayed. I was one that remained. I was beginning to feel sick from the gases released from the house, but I felt that leaving just wasn't in my capability. To be honest, I still had adrenaline racing in my blood. The rest seemed trivial. The most important thing that followed was the people. The people cared, they stayed. They loved. They rallied together so help the Taylors, who were coming back Tuesday from a vacation in Arizona. We all pitched in with supplies that were necessary, like toothbrushes, towels, some dishes, food, water, toiletries and more.

Part IV

It's been over a month, We still don't know how that house burned down. I remember like it was yesterday. I learned a lot that day, about strength and bravery, even though it may not seem like it to others. I'm wiser, I'm a bit older. I view that day with a bit of pride. I was pretty weak that day, but I learned things about myself. I learned how to face fear: with love. Love is in everyone, and everyone is loved, whether they know it or not. Maybe it's not romantic love or the love of a parent or friend. Maybe that love is your neighbors. If the unfortunate events that befell the Taylors befell you, maybe your neighbors would join forces and lift you up, higher than ever before. Love combats evil. Love wins.

And so if anyone were ever to ask me what happened to me, I'm acting different, I will always reply with these parting words: different? I guess. But to me, this difference is good. It's the foundation I am going to use to put my life back in order. I'm going to take this new found love and channel it towards others. They deserve it. The Taylors deserve it. The community deserves it. When I look out at the world, all this racism, sexism, homophobia, animal abuse, child abuse, neglect, hate, death, animal testing, inequality, injustice, fear, poverty, crime, prejudice, discrimination, biases, bullying, suicide, depression, cutting, drinking, drugs, disabilities, pornography, revenge, profanity, refugees, addiction, global warming, and just simply the work of the devil, I always know that there is light. That's because I am the light. If one of those problems in a society stuck out to you, and you know that it's wrong, then you can put down your gun and quit arguing. Then, you can be a light too. Sure, I'm not perfect; you're not perfect, we're all flawed. But if we can put a coin in a beggar's cup or speak up when you see scars on someone's arms or legs, that's the start of two coins or two people, and three and four and so on until you've saved so many people you can't count. So yes. I'm different. Why? Because of that spark, that spark that the floated from the Taylor's burning household into me. I've found that I can be strong and that I have people who love me. I will show love to others in every way, shape, and form. And now, I'm Victoria Angie Peterson, a changed girl.


	45. Bitter Irony in 50 Words (Short Story)

"Just a little further," the man whispered weakly.

He had been out here two months, and his destination finally approached: Mount Everest's peak.

With one more heave, he reached the top. He gazed out to see the view from the mountain, only for it to be obscured by whirling snow.


	46. Those Who Don't (Vignette)

There are those who don't know me think I know what I'm doing. They see me smile and walk with my head held high, my feet moving surely and my eyes fixed ahead like I've never been lost. They see how comfortable I am with my best friends and how I have a deep relationship with each of them like I've never been alone. They see me get handed back tests with high marks and shove them in my folder, the A's nothing new, nothing important, like I've never felt like I was drowning. They see me hug my mom and lovingly tease my brother like my family hasn't ever been shattered. They see me smile like the sun as if I never stared up at the stars and wondered if maybe the world would be better off without me.

Those who don't know me think I'm a bit quiet sometimes but in general I'm a good person, the kind of girl who makes her parents proud. Sure, I'm not as pretty as her, as sporty as them, as social as him, but I'm the kind of person that has plenty of possible paths available for a bright, stable, successful future that we're taught to crave. I could have the house with the white picket fence and the great job as a lawyer or something else as well paying as that. I could. That's what those who don't know think about me.

At least, I think they do. I hope they do. It's what I've been trying to con everyone into believing for a long time now. That I'm okay. And I shouldn't care. Why should I concern myself with what those who don't know me think of me? But it feels like my whole identity hangs on what they think of me. I have to be good enough. I can't let them hate me. So I hide it when I'm not okay. Which isn't all of the time, but it is most of the time.

Sometimes I hang my head and drag my feet. Sometimes I feel disconnected from even my closest friends. Sometimes I turn my tests over so no one sees a bad grade. Sometimes I scream at my mom and fight with my brother. Sometimes I tear up during class, especially when I feel like I let someone down. But I only do these things when I think no one is looking.

Wouldn't want them to see me fall.


	47. A Literary Identity (Vignette)

People grow and change over time. They mature, age, and become wiser as they gain more life experiences and learn. The same is true for me. When I was young, I was a naive reader. But today, I'd describe myself as a deep reader. My past experiences have molded me to fit into this literary identity such as the books I was read as a child, the development of my passion, and the stories I've consumed.

My earliest memories of reading are of me in my mom's lap, cuddled up in the recliner and looking at the pictures while her soft voice told the story. The lamplight was a warm yellow and my electric blanket was heating up my bed for me while she flipped papers and wrapped her arms around me. Those were some of the best nights of my life. I remember The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle and its artistic, almost fingerpaint-like illustrations. I remember learning about selflessness when she read me The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein and crying at the sad ending. My mom had kissed my forehead and said she loved me as much as the tree loved the boy. I remember The Little Engine That Could by Watty Piper teaching me determination, Stellaluna by Janell Cannon teaching me acceptance, and Love You Forever by Robert Munsch assuring me that my mom would always be there for me. But mostly, I remember The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge by Hildegard Swift. That was my favorite and my dad would read it to me all the time. We'd play make-believe with him on my top bunk, pretending to be the bridge and me on the bottom holding a flashlight, claiming I was the lighthouse. Those books taught me many, many valuable lessons and give me tons of good memories to look back on. I also credit my passion for reading to them since they showed me how magical it can be, leading me to crave deeper books.

When I was in elementary school, I loved to read all the time. There was never a day I didn't have at least two books with me. My 3rd-grade teacher hated me (and I mean hated me) because I tended to read while she was teaching. She'd confiscate my books and I'd just pull out another one. It was kind of like a clown car- they'd just keep coming with seemingly no end. I had a particular affinity for Charlotte's Web by E.B. White and essentially anything by Andrew Clements. Once, I got in trouble and my parents weren't sure how to punish me, so they grounded me from reading for two weeks. Of course, that didn't stop me. I'd sneak into my closet, crawl inside a large suitcase, flick on my flashlight, and keep reading. I always had a way to get my hands on a book. I think that has a lot to do with my high reading comprehension. All six years, my friend Lily and I competed for the highest Lexile. Sometimes I got it, sometimes she did. We both got interviewed by WSBT, though. This obsession that got me to a college reading level by 5th-grade was essential to shaping my literary identity. Reading deep books can be difficult, so I needed these skills to understand them.

Characters are what make or break a story for me. Truly, the rest of the book could suck, but if the characters are good, I'll read it because I connect deeply to characters. When I wrap myself in a story, I become part of it. I watch my favorites, the ones I can project onto the most, live their lives and learn from them. They are my role models and some of my greatest inspirations. The books that really taught me to sink my teeth into characters are The Maze Runner by James Dashner, Dear Evan Hansen by Val Emmich (which was a musical first, but the book is very good, too), and Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. When I read The Maze Runner, I most connected to a character named Newt, a caring boy in a difficult position, desperately trying to keep everyone together before it all falls apart. He is referred to as "the glue," which I felt was fitting. He struggled with depression and survived a suicide attempt, though he was left with a limp. Despite his disadvantages, he pressed on and was, in my opinion, the strongest person in the book. His ability to carry on inspires me and he taught me about selflessness. Second, in Dear Evan Hansen, I most connected to the title character, Evan Hansen. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place, fighting suicidal thoughts, depression, and anxiety, and trying to do the best he could despite the circumstances. Throughout the story, the theme is that you are not alone, a message that I really needed at that point in my life. Also, he made me feel understood. As I read the thoughts in his head, I realized that there wasn't a single thing he thought that I hadn't, too. Finally, in Les Miserables, I most connected with Enjolras, a schoolboy determined to reform the government, no matter the cost. In the story, he and his friends stand up to their oppressors, even when they knew they would die because it was the right thing to do. Enjolras taught me never to give up, how to be brave, and to always stand up for what's right. I spent hours thinking about these characters, reading everything they said or thought a thousand times, and digging deep into their character until I understood them completely. This analysis was my first step into deep reading and my literary identity.

Another thing that developed me into being a deep reader is the fandoms for the books I fell in love with. Like-minded people that were equally as passionate as I was were all in one spot. How could I resist joining them? We loved diving into stories and talking through things we didn't understand until they became clear. Throughout this digging, we frequently would learn more lessons, uncover more themes, and relate to the characters more. This aid in exploring the depths of a book helped me learn how to do it well. Finding the underlying messages became easy for me.

Finally, there is a brief list of books that changed my life. On it are The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, and The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. These are the books that I threw myself into, finally and firmly solidifying my literary identity as being a deep reader. When I read The Book Thief, I saw a new side of WWII. I'd read plenty of books about it before, but this was different. It also encouraged my passion for books, showing me how important they were. I realized that I took so many things in my life for granted, such as books. From then on, I've tried hard to appreciate the things I have instead of whining about things I don't. When I read A Tale of Two Cities, at first, I enjoyed it, but it wasn't that big of a deal. I admired the beautiful, flowing sentences of Dickens and each description, of course, making him one of my favorite authors. Yet it wasn't a book that really challenged me. When I reached the end, though, I was floored. Sydney Carton was in love with a girl named Lucie Manette, who doesn't feel the same way for him. He never confesses and watches her fall in love with a man named Charles Darnay. It breaks his heart, but he never does anything to compromise the relationship, even just express how he feels because he knows that would hurt her. When Charles was going to be executed by the French revolutionaries, Sydney switched places with Charles. He went to the guillotine for him, even though he didn't care much about him. He loved Lucie so much that he was willing to die not for her, but for her husband. All he wanted was for her to be happy. I learned a lesson about self-sacrifice and love. That was truly unconditional love, something rare, and something I finally understood. Last is The Song of Achilles. Ever since reading the Percy Jackson books by Rick Riordan, I'd fallen in love with Greek mythology. I read the Iliad and the Odyssey, of course, and one day this book was recommended to me. It retold the Iliad but centered around Patroclus and Achilles. In the past, I'd read plenty of books about heroes on the battlefield. I'd cheer for them when they defeated their enemies and didn't care about the destruction they caused because I was seeing it through their eyes. But The Song of Achilles is not told by Achilles; it's told by Patroclus. The boys grew up and when they went to fight in the Trojan War, I didn't read about Achilles' great victories. I read about Patroclus desperately trying to patch up wounded soldiers and his horror when Achilles came back covered in blood- but not his own. It told of the realities of war. Readers watched Achilles change from the innocent child he was to a warrior. They were shown another side of war, the one that explores the morals of it. Because even if I'm rooting for Achilles, the people he kills are still people. They had lives, friends, families, etc. There are people that will mourn for them. There are people whose hearts will break because of what he did to them. Patroclus grieves as he watches the fighting and it is incredibly emotional to see Achilles be sharpened into a weapon instead of the person he is. This made me wonder if there's any justification in war. I spent lots of time thinking about this and I became a much more empathetic person. In fact, I think I grew a lot from digging deep into this story. The actual action of delving into these books is what truly made my literary identity complete.


	48. Cyclogenesis (Vignette)

When I was born, I brought a blizzard with me. My parents' drive to the hospital was over icy roads and the whirling snow never settled throughout the long, tireless night.

I met my first friend when the sky was red and the temperature fair. I lost the same friend when the water dried up during a dry, cracked summer. The sun burned down on us and dust blew when she told me that I was worthless. That was when I learned who didn't love me.

My first memory of Kindergarten was hunkering down in a hallway while tornado sirens blared, our teachers telling us stories to keep us calm. We were there all day, taking deep breaths and trying to be brave. My best friend held my hand tightly and said we'd be alright. That was the day I learned who did love me.

While I was on vacation, my cat died. I came home on a turbulent night when the sky was dark and my dad told me. I was very young, maybe six. The idea that he was gone struck me like lightning and I understood death for the first time.

For years, my passion was performing and theatre. My parents gave me my first phone because snowstorms would cause frequent rehearsal pickup delays and they wanted me to be able to let them know in advance. I was so thankful for that frigid weather and glad to take on a new level of responsibility.

On May 22, 2011, a devastating EF5 tornado swept through Joplin, Missouri, the town where all of my family is from. We were terrified when we heard since there were so many people we loved there. Within an hour, our car was packed and we were on the road, headlights cutting through the night as we sped down the interstate. The devastation was horrible- all you could see for miles were piles of wood, brick, stone, and twisted steel. Once in awhile a gnarled, bare tree would still have roots clinging to the ground. The adults helped search through the rubble and I vividly remember picking up an American Girl Doll from between rusted nails and broken glass, staring down at it and wondering if another little girl was missing her doll. Or maybe she wasn't.

Hearing people talk about their experiences was life-changing. I remember children crying while they described how scared they were, people reminiscing over all they had lost and a mother who shut herself and her son in a closet, trying to keep the door shut until it was ripped off the hinges. She said that she had been holding her son tightly in her arms, but the wind lifted him up and tore him away from her despite her desperate attempts to hold onto him. They found his body a few days later.

In total, 161 people died in that twister and nearly 1,000 were hurt, but the community held itself together. Survivors hung American flags over the wreckage, staked crosses into the ground, and spray-painted encouraging messages on plywood or broken cinderblock walls. There were massive tents set up with water bottles and food for those that had none and shelters were chock-full of people with tattered blankets. It took months to reunite the pets that lived to their owners and we still don't know how many animals died. I learned a lesson about endurance and strength in the time that I spent there, one that I carry with me still.

The night my parents told me that they were getting divorced, there were heavy clouds rolling in from the North. The ground was slipping out from underneath me like a landslide. My mom called my dad and he raced over when they realized I had figured it out. I lay on the couch crying for hours while they tried to calm me down and exchanged worried looks when I threw up from the stress. It wasn't any use, though. This storm wasn't outside- it was in me and there was no stopping it. It grew when I found out why they were divorcing, it grew when I heard about my dad's girlfriend with her happy, perfect daughter... it grew the day I came home and ran my fingers over damage on the door frame from where movers had hit it with my dad's chest of drawers. It completely flooded me and soon I found myself drowning, crying, "Why did you leave me?"

My grandma died a few days before Christmas in 2016. We spent the winter holidays there every year, smiling and laughing around the dining room table. It was our family tradition, one of my favorites. But that Christmas was different. I slept in the same bed that she died in. I lay there, watching the flakes softly falling outside the window and hating the quiet of the atmosphere. Yes, that was what got me- the quiet. People barely spoke in that house, I only said something to my dad two or three times. But you could always hear at least one person crying. Always- it didn't matter whether it was the middle of the day or the night. That was the first year we didn't have a Christmas tree. In fact, there were no decorations aside from a surplus of flowers from people who had known my grandma. I decorated a sympathy plant with cut up wrapping paper. There were no presents that year. After all, I didn't want a gift card. The only things I really wanted, I'd never have again.

I ran outside through the woods in the middle of the firn to get away from that house: cheeks flushed, lips blue, and tears frozen to my face. I ran and I screamed to break the vortex's frosty silence. It was too suffocating for me to spend another second in it. That moment was the eye of the hurricane before I had to pick up the broken pieces of my family, namely, my mother and brother. After all, I was the only one that was keeping it together. I didn't even cry, despite each blow pounding into me like hail. I was just... numb. 

I've spent many long nights slumped against the side of my bed and watching raindrops roll down my window panes, mirroring the tears on my cheeks and the blood on my arms. All that I could see is the weeping sky, the stained razorblades, and the moonlight bathing it all in an ethereal glow. 

It was thundering when I realized I was in love. We had been walking side by side talking about deep things when the sky opened up, gushing rain on us. She called for me to run, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward her house, which was too far away to come into view yet. Our feet were bare and the rough streets hurt them, so I pulled her onto the grass by the wrist. For a moment, we were caught there, standing in front of the lake, completely drenched, breathing in the fog, and standing face to face. The water made her blonde curls cling to the sides of her face and the striking green of her eyes stood out against the grey sky. Her skin was warm under my fingers, a stark contrast to the cold air, and all I could think of were the last ten years I'd known her. She was so close; we were so close. It would have been so easy to pull her in just a bit more and kiss her. But I didn't. I will, though. Someday.

My life has been a storm, for better or for worse. Sometimes the turbulence threatens to swallow me whole. But I keep going. I keep moving. I keep breathing. Because even if it doesn't feel like it, I know that it will pass. The clouds will part, the light will shine, and a rainbow will appear. Maybe it will happen today, maybe tomorrow, maybe twenty years from now. But it will happen. It has to. In the meantime, I will watch and wait for the sun.


	49. The Plane (Vignette)

I had a nightmare last night. 

It began with my father and I laying in sandy orange-ish dirt. We'd fallen from something, though it was unclear what. 

I staggered to my feet, he followed suit. There was a blur of an argument between myself and a third party, someone I can't place. 

As dreams often do, it faded into another. I saw my dad and I riding rollercoasters at Disney World, saw our family together on a train to Chicago, heard my favorite bedtime story when I was younger, and listened to the lullaby he used to sing me to make me fall asleep. These all were memories drawn from somewhere deep inside, somewhere bittersweet. 

Then I saw him getting in his plane at dusk. Well, the plane that once belonged to him. Her name was Juliet, and I loved flying with my dad in the small cockpit, steering with him as we surged up through the clouds. 

But this time I wasn't going with him. 

The runway was lit with red lights to show where it ended, a control tower was far behind us, blinking and sending radio signals to the other planes that approached the tiny airport. Our hanger was wide open, smelling like gasoline and the space heater that kept me warm when my dad worked on the plane in winter. 

He hugged me, walked across the tarmac, waved goodbye, and ducked inside. I raced along the plane as he started the engine and rode down the runway until he gained too much speed and I had to stop next to a windsock that flapped in the wind. When he neared the end, the wheels rose off the ground and he took off into the dark gray sky. 

The plane was still with sight when it abruptly dipped and started nosediving toward the earth. I froze, not believing what was happening and hoping it was a simple malfunction, something easily solvable so he could keep flying to whatever destination he had been heading towards. 

The plane barreled down below the treeline and hit the ground in a massive explosion that could be seen from a mile away.

I screamed at the top of my lungs, voice raw and desperate, "DAD!" 

It was much too far of a distance for me to run there, but that didn't stop me. I took off, calling for him until my voice was scratchy, weak, and cracking. 

I'm not sure what I was trying to accomplish by going there. There was no hope he survived. Something in me still made me want to go there, though. Maybe I'd find something- his baseball hat with the St. Louis Cardinals logo on it, the headset he spoke coordinates into when we flew together, a holdable chunk of Juliet to cling to... 

While I was running, though, I kept thinking about the dream I'd had right before The lullaby played in my ears, flashes of laughed and hugs flickered across my vision, and I wondered just how scared he was when the plane started going down and he realized he was going to crash. 

Mostly, though, I just wanted to hug him. 

After sifting through ashes, whispering, "please, please, please," over and over again, I found the tattered remains of his baseball hat with the St. Louis Cardinals logo on it.

I awoke sobbing, sweating, gasping, and my heart was pounding. The moment I realized it was just a dream was a rush of indescribable relief. Still, though, I reached for my phone and opened it to his contact. It was four o'clock in the morning and I decided that he would be asleep and less than ready to talk to me at the moment. So, I set it back down and rolled over, the plane's descent and the explosion replaying in my head in a torturous and uncontrollable loop.


	50. A Song That Remind Me Of You (Short Story)

The air is a bit brisk as my fingers glide over the piano keys. They repeat their song, surging up and falling back over and over as I play. 

You are behind me, sinking into a chair to listen. 

There are no sheets of music for me to read, but I already have the song memorized. I play it all the time, and I always think of you. 

But I don't tell you that as I begin to sing, a smile tugging at my lips. 

Your eyes train on my fingers, crossing over each other to reach each note and occasionally your gaze flickers to my face. I pretend it doesn't make my stomach do flips. 

We reach the bridge and the notes ring one by one, leaving my voice on its own. You are enraptured in the music like I am enraptured in you. 

The song takes a turn, and I can tell you feel it. But you sit there, listening and watching while I think about you and sing. 

The dog barks. You hush her, not wanting her to break the fragile quiet. 

The final chorus ends. You say nothing for a moment. Then, finally, "That was sad." 

You're right, of course. It is a sad song. But that's kind of the point. We're separated by so many boundaries we dare not cross, just like the story of the couple in the song, and we both know it, even though we've never acknowledged it out loud. But we don't need to. Prolonged eye contact, gentle whispers, a brush of the hand, tight hugs, and the nonexistent gap between us when we sit next to each other says it all. 

"Yeah," I reply simply and let my hands fall into my lap. 

You take a deep breath. "We probably go home." 

I smile. You just called my house home. "Okay."


	51. A Bleak But Realistic Outlook (Vignette)

In the future I imagine myself being in a job that I really hate, likely an office job, with a boss that disrespects me and gross coworkers. I'm deep in debt from college when I ran out of money before I could get a medical degree. 

My days are the same, each one blurring into the next on and on and on. The alarm every morning is the same sound and I can barely drag myself out of bed even when I've gotten plenty of sleep. 

I don't like the music on the radio anymore, so I listen to older music off my out-of-date phone. But there's only so much and my favorite songs have lost their meaning after being played so many times. 

I get a McDonald's coffee on the way since it's cheap and when I come in, a rude man at the desk by the door always makes a joke as if I were getting coffee for him. He says, "thanks, sweetheart," when I come in, and I don't care. I used to, but now it's just part of my life.

I fell in love in my twenties to an amazing person and we were soulmates. However, our marriage crumbled slowly. So slowly, we didn't even realize it until the situation was desperate.

Traits we once admired became a hassle as we saw them in a new light: bravery became stupidity, kindness became annoying, dependence became clinginess, confidence became arrogance, and honesty became cruelty. 

Both my spouse and I have fallen out of love for the same reasons we fell into it. We are still together because neither one of us wants to admit that the person we would have done anything for a few years ago has become a burden. That's just too much for us to handle. So we sleep on the far sides of the bed, kisses have ceased, and neither of us is happy with our marriage.

My house is always in disarray since I am so busy and tired. My spouse never helps out, even when I ask. Dishes pile up, the trash needs to be taken out, and our old cat is dissatisfied with his litterbox. I love that cat, but he's been around for a long time and he's at the short end of his lifespan. I need to fold the laundry, it's getting wrinkled in the dryer. My clothes are all so similar and I hate the weight I have gained but lack the motivation and time to work out. I tried going vegan for a while, but with both my spouse and me on such low incomes, we need to buy cheap meat and almond milk is more expensive than cow milk.

I have no children, we both decided against them, and I don't regret my choice. I wouldn't want my child in these conditions, anyway. 

Regularly, I donate plasma for money as a little boost to get myself something I like such as hair ties. My socks have holes but I don't want to go buy more. I cut my own hair since I never do anything special and I can do it myself. That saves money to afford the gas I need to get to my job. 

My brother is the success story my parents share when they talk about their kids. He graduated with honors from MIT and has a job at Google coding new programs. He's married, happy, and living in suburbia. He has a full bank account but due to the way I treated him in our childhood, we don't call each other and he wouldn't help me even if I asked. But I don't ask because I already know the answer. 

Every year I get a pretty Christmas card in the mail that my mom spent a lot of time making, but I never go home for Christmas because I have to work and I can't stand answering questions from my family like, "If you hate your job, why not just get a new one?" or "How are you doing?" because I know my answers won't satisfy them, so when my mom calls and asks if I am happy, I lie.

My health isn't the best because I don't go for yearly checkups to save money and I don't have insurance. I'm awaiting the day I get cancer and have to pay more money to get treatment or the day the leaky faucet I didn't call the plumber about bursts and I need to pay even more money to get it fixed. I've learned that poverty breeds poverty.

My older aunt is on the donor list for a lung and has been waiting for too long. Whenever the phone rings it's a gamble between the first time I'll gather with my family in years for her funeral or just my landlord. 

Bills that I need to sell my things to pay for are on the kitchen table and the Christmas cards from my mom are in the drawer of my nightstand. The air conditioning rattles, the floorboards creak, and the car makes a whining sound when I turn left. There are pictures in my wallet of my childhood best friends, who don't talk to me anymore. We have all moved on in our lives and since we never see each other, we've fallen out of touch. I get my groceries from the Dollar Store and my clothes from Goodwill.

Sometimes I stand in the shower in the hot water and think about where I am. I don't like it, or myself, but I don't know how to change it. Even if I did, I'm not sure that I even feel like making the change. It seems like too much work.

The day my spouse and I split is the day they sell their wedding ring at a pawn shop. I still keep mine because it reminds me of when we used to stay up late talking for hours, watching thunderstorms, and when they proposed on our camping trip in Maine that I had always wanted to go on.

The President has gotten worse and I don't even bother voting anymore because it's hopeless. I don't have my rights and the economy is collapsing. It hasn't been this bad since 2008. I should care, I should be upset. But honestly, I don't. I don't care about virtually anything anymore.

My retirement fund is empty because I had to cash out to make rent and pay my divorce lawyer. Yesterday, I saw an ad online for a bus driving job. When I am fired from my job due to my age (though my employers will claim it is due to insufficient work), that is where I will be. I will drive kids that hate me and throw gum until the school lets me go because of my Alzheimers and carpal tunnel syndrome. The history of cancer in my family is going to come back to bite me any day now and honestly, I'm not scared. I'm ready. I'm old, I'm tired, and I'm alone. I've visited the funerals of my parents, aunts, uncles, brother, cousins, and friends. I don't want to live to see another one.


	52. First Aid Kit (Poem)

I can perform first aid.

I took a class a while back because I wanted to be a doctor

I also learned a lot online because I liked writing stories and sometimes the heroes get hurt, just like we do

So I can perform first aid.

If your heart stops, I can keep it beating

If your lungs aren't working I can breathe you back to life

30 chest compressions, two rescue breaths

And CPR stands for Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation.

Most bleeding can be managed

Apply pressure with a cloth to encourage clotting

Don't use a tourniquet unless you're out of options.

Remember the RICE formula for sprains or twisted joints

Rest

Ice

Compress

Elevate.

Hell, if you suffer a jellyfish sting, I can help you

Wash the area for 30 seconds with vinegar

Then put the affected area in very hot water for at least 20 minutes

Don't use any pressure bandages.

If you burn yourself, I can clean it out

Rinse with cold water, dry well, then apply burn cream and bandage

No medication access? No problem!

Rub aloe on it, or even lavender oil to take away some of the pain.

There's a lot of herbal remedies for things

Crushed English Marigolds will reduce pain and swelling in insect bites

Ginger soothes an upset stomach

Chamomile helps with pretty much any minor illness

Evening Primrose oil helps with eczema and even PMS

Cilantro is a digestive aid

Lemon balm can fight herpes

Peppermint ceases vomiting

And use thyme for cold prevention.

I'm prepared for an emergency

I can heal others

I can save them

Almost any physical injury you have, I can help with.

But what happens when the issue is internal?

And by that, I don't mean organ damage.

I mean instead of a slowed heart, a broken one

I mean instead of a laceration, a trauma carved into your mind

I've spent so much time learning how to save the physical, I don't know how to heal the intangible.

Sure there's Lexapro

Wellbutrin

Paxil

Prozac

And a million more drugs to encourage serotonin production

But they don't really fix anything.

You can stitch up my slit wrists

You can pump the bleach out of my stomach

You can roll me on my side to help the water in my lungs drain out

You can bandage me up after a car crash

You can shove an oxygen mask over my face and throw me in a pressurized chamber to get the carbon monoxide out of my system

You can put me back together again and again with bandaids and gauze

But you can't save me from the real killer.

Because my murderer isn't a razor blade or a fall from my roof

It's my mind

And no first aid kit is going to save me from that.


	53. Headlights (Poem)

Soft music plays as we drive down an unnamed street

We have no destination

We're only out here because driving makes me feel better

I'm staring out the passenger side window and the sunroof to see the stars, pointing them out to you and telling you their names are

The moon is very low on the horizon with a particularly yellow glow tonight- waxing gibbous

The river is beside us, the headlights reflecting off the water

The interstate highway isn't far south and we pass a farmhouse with candles in each window, ready for Christmas, which is approaching

There hasn't been another car out here in miles so you have the brights on

You're humming along and I sing the words under my breath

The night is so dark and cold but here, in this old car, under the spare blanket, it's safe and for the first time in days, I'm okay, traveling fast, all night, west toward Chicago


	54. Burnout (Poem)

Today I Googled, "what jobs can I get if I'm stupid"

Today I joked that maybe if I killed myself, my grades wouldn't matter anymore

Today I laughed and wondered aloud if I was pretty enough to be a prostitute someday because it was looking like that was the best option left for me

But I already know the answers

None

They will 

And no.

I was on track to be someone

The world was mine for the taking

I was the gifted kid, the one that got straight A's without studying 

The one the teachers loved

With a 4.17 GPA

That was me.

I'd look at F's on another student's paper and be unable to understand how failing a test was even possible

It was so easy

Why couldn't they get it?

I understand now

And yet I don't. 

I'm not sure why I lost everything

I'm not sure why this happened to me

I'm not sure of anything.

I care and don't at the same time

I care enough to cru, to hate myself and scream at the mirror

But I can't find the strength to attempt solving the unsolvable.

After getting my score back on my most recent test, I've given up

Why try anymore?

I've ruined my own life beyond repair

So what's the point? 

It feels worse to fight and lose than to never fight at all

Despite what motivational quotes on aesthetic backgrounds will tell you.

I cried myself to sleep last night

I probably will again tonight

It's not like it will change anything

But sometimes it makes me feel just a bit better.

I don't know

I guess I'm just a burnout.


	55. Interstate 55 (Poem)

It's not very late, but it's December, so Night has come.

We're in the car going north  
Heavy rain is coming down and the wipers are moving at a constant rhythm  
Sometimes someone will pass us and I'll hear an engine, but mostly I just hear the tires on the interstate and your blinker when you change lanes.

Once in a while, there will be a hitch in the rain as we drive under a bridge or overpass  
I'm laying down on my pillow, head beside you while your hand rests on my side  
Opposite it is my seatbelt buckle, a firm but assuring pressure at the bottom of my ribs. 

I-55 stretches from South Bend to St. Louis, 382 miles.

"We're almost home," you murmur, and that brings a bittersweet comfort. 

The pavement shines in the headlights and I realize that this is a moment that one day I will miss  
This is a moment that could inspire poetry and this is a moment that I'll clutch when I'm alone.

Because my whole world is here- the rain, the noise, your, hand and we're almost home.


End file.
